THE    GI.ORY    THAT    WAS    SPAIN 


THE  LAND  BEYOND 
MEXICO 

BY 
RHYS  CARPENTER 


ARTIctVeWTAJl 


BOSTON 

RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE    GORHAM    PRESS 


l^J^i 


Copyright,  1920,  by  Richard  G.  Badger 


All  Rights  Reserved 


Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


The  Gotham  Press,  Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


C  3  SAN^ 


SOI  nOATKEPAES  OPET  BIBAION  MNHMEIA  ANEGHKA 
nOINAS  fiN  EHAGON  TINTMEN02  SE  EHESIN 


This  book,  thou  crafty  mule,  to  thee 
I  dedicate  in  memory. 
For  penalty  of  every  wrong 
Avenging  me  on  thee  with  song. 


FOREWORD 

This  book  is  the  record  of  a  mule-back 
journey  of  nearly  a  thousand  miles  undertaken  by 
an  American  archaeologist  who  wished  to 
familiarize  himself  with  some  of  the  old  Maya 
ruins  of  Central  America. 

It  aims  at  giving  a  picture  of  the  land  and 
people  of  Guatemala,  San  Salvador,  and  the 
northern  border  of  Honduras,  as  they  are  known 
only  to  those  who  are  content  to  sleep  In  the 
Indian  villages  and  ride  the  lonely  upland  trails 
of  one  of  the  loveliest  and  least  known  countries 
of  the  New  World. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     In  the  Highlands 13 

II.     Mirage   of  Quiche 47 

III.  Antigua 72 

IV.  Riding  to  Salvador 97 

V.     Don  Quixote's  Ranch     .     .     .     .  124 

VI.    The  Lowlands 153 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Glory  that  was  Spain     Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


Survivors  of  Earthquake        ....  34 

High  Street.     Antigua        50 

Road  and  Ruin.    Antigua        ....  60 

Feast  of  the  Virgin.     Guatemala  City  90 

"Idols"  of  Copan.     Honduras      .     .     .  114 

The  Thicket.     Quirigua 126 


THE  LAND  BEYOND  MEXICO 


THE  LAND  BEYOND  MEXICO 

CHAPTER  I 

IN  THE  HIGHLANDS 

To  what  lengths  do  we  go  for  our  amusement, 
we,  the  spoiled  children  of  our  age  I  I  have  found 
me  a  table  and  made  me  a  bench,  and  I  am  seated 
out-of-doors  under  a  sloping  roof.  All  that  I 
can  see  is  a  courtyard,  full  of  chickens  and  ducks 
and  rain.  The  hens,  devoid  of  maritime  inclina- 
tions, are  pecking  about  forlornly  under  what 
shelter  they  can  find,  while  their  sea-going  cousins, 
indifferent  to  the  flood,  drift  about  happily  on  the 
lake  that  was  a  courtyard.  Beyond  is  a  wall 
whose  dirty  stucco,  scaling  away,  has  made  patent 
to  every  passer-by  that  adobe  is  mud  In  spite  of  all 
pretences.  Above  It,  the  more  distant  ridge  of  a 
thatched  roof  vanishes  Into  the  grey  of  the  driv- 
ing rain.  That  is  all  that  meets  my  eye,  except 
an  Indian  boy  or  two,  moving  about  the  house. 
Most  of  the  Indians  are  asleep,  curled  on  rugs 
and  blankets,  though  it  is  not  yet  three  in  the 

13 


14  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

afternoon.  Two  others,  manifestly  against  their 
will,  subject  to  the  force  majeure  of  the  woman 
of  the  house,  have  gone  to  find  fodder  for  my 
mule.  Feeding  Colorada,  I  can  already  see,  will 
be  the  cross  and  trial  of  the  days  to  come.  But 
what  is  bad  for  my  temper  is  good  for  my 
Spanish :  meanwhile  it  rains. 

I  am  inclined  to  think  that  these  haunts  are  to 
be  found  in  nearly  every  atlas.  The  poorest  bit 
of  cartography  will  show  you  that  the  first  country 
south  of  Mexico  is  Guatemala,  that  it  stretches 
from  ocean  to  ocean  without  managing  to  attain 
any  considerable  area,  and  that  it  has  a  range  of 
mountains  running  through  it,  out  of  Mexico  and 
into  Salvador,  a  sacral  vertebra  in  the  great 
North  American  spine.  In  the  undulating  table- 
land in  the  center  of  those  volcanic  hills,  a 
hundred  miles  below  Mexico,  a  hundred  miles 
above  Salvador,  there  is  a  little  sloping  town 
called  Patzizia.  In  one  of  the  topmost  streets 
is  a  house  a  little  larger  than  its  neighbours,  with 
a  courtyard  and  a  stall.  In  the  stall  is  a  munching 
mule  recently  renamed  Colorada,  and  in  the  court- 
yard under  a  sloping  roof  is  an  American  traveller 
who  is  writing  and  watching  the  rain. 

A  glance  indoors  at  the  mattress  has  just  con- 
vinced him  that  he  will  not  be  undressing  for  bed 
to-night.     Meanwhile  it  rains,  and  it  will  still  be 


In  the  Highlands  1$ 

indulging  in  that  heavenly  and  beneficent  occupa- 
tion for  the  five  hours  of  daylight  that  yet  re- 
main. There  is  neither  event  nor  change.  The 
inn-keeper's  daughter  is  rather  good-looking,  but 
her  legs  are  too  thick  and  her  nose  is  a  trifle 
short;  out  in  the  dreary  deluge,  unfed  and  un- 
pitied,  there  is  tied  a  decrepit  old  horse  with  a  sore 
on  either  shoulder;  the  household  wash  is  flying 
in  the  wind  in  a  preposterous  attempt  to  dry  itself, 
though  Deukalion  and  Gilgamesh  never  beheld 
anything  more  torrential;  an  attractive,  but  sod- 
den, little  pig  has  just  taken  refuge  in  my  bed- 
room, and  I  am  debating  whether  it  is  Christian 
to  turn  him  out  into  the  wet.  .  .  .  Oh,  we 
spoiled  children  of  our  agel  I  have  come  three 
thousand  miles  for  this;  and  I  half  believe  that  I 
enjoy  it. 

The  head  of  the  household  is  an  old,  old  woman 
(aetate  sua  XLV)  who  does  all  her  arithmetic 
with  kernels  of  dried  corn.  There  is,  it  seems, 
something  unprognosticable  in  the  addition  of  six 
and  five  which  only  empiric  observation  can  de- 
termine. But  it  is  folly  to  deride  her  methods, 
for  I  suspect  her  to  be  the  richest  woman  in  the 
village  and,  to  judge  by  the  wrinkled  cunning  of 
her  eyes,  the  shrewdest.  There  are  three  genera- 
tions under  her  roof,  and  unless  her  strong-ankled 
grand-daughter  is  as  haughty  as  she  is  pretty, 


1 6  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

future  travellers  will  find  four.  She  was  atten- 
tive to  my  wants  and  comfort,  at  which  I  should 
have  been  surprised  had  I  known  the  country  bet- 
ter. I  was  soon  to  learn  that  Guatemala  is  ob- 
livious to  the  stranger  within  her  gates,  that  she 
greets  him  with  indifference,  tends  him  with  in- 
dolence, and  speeds  him  in  indigence.  I  do  not 
mean  that  he  is  robbed  or  cheated  on  his  de- 
parture. On  the  contrary,  he  cannot  get  rid  of 
his  money,  since  it  buys  him  nothing.  The  people 
are  not  hostile,  but  inactive;  incurious,  rather  than 
unfriendly;  and  negligent  because  they  are  unim- 
aginative and  because  they  work  only  when  they 
must.  Travelling  is  cheap  and  uncomfortable. 
Distances  are  long  and  food  is  meagre.  But  I 
was  well-fed  that  afternoon  in  Patzizia  and  went 
to  bed  at  an  early  hour.  The  pig  had  upheld  his 
right  of  entry;  but  soon  my  sleepy  senses  heard 
neither  him  nor  the  rain,  and  when  I  woke  at 
dawn,  both  had  vanished. 

I  set  out  early  on  my  northward  road,  where 
among  pines  and  corn-fields  and  green  slopes  of 
grass  I  almost  found  again  our  own  Atlantic 
states.  Some  glimpse,  some  turn,  some  folding  of 
the  hills  had  an  easy  and  pleasant  familiarity,  only 
to  lose  its  homely  appeal  a  hundred  yards  further 
up  the  road,   where  agave  and  a  burst  of  un- 


In  the  Highlands  17 

northern  flowers  marked  the  invasion  of  the  low- 
land flora  from  the  hot  and  luxuriant  coast  be- 
yond the  mountain-wall. 

The  road  from  Patzizia  leads  between  green 
hedges  through  a  garden-land  where  the  corn 
grows  high  and  weeds  are  unbelievably  fertile. 
Less  than  fifteen  degrees  north  of  the  Equator 
and  more  than  six  thousand  feet  above  the  sea, 
this  upland  of  volcanic  soil  is  a  compromise  be- 
tween a  tropic  latitude  and  a  temperate  altitude. 
There  is  a  northern  character  to  the  scenery,  yet 
the  greens  are  harder  and  cruder,  and  the  hght 
has  none  of  the  richness  and  shadow-play  of 
Berkshire  lawns  or  New  Hampshire  woods.  In 
some  strange  way  it  is  the  Tropics  still. 

Behind  me  as  I  rode  were  the  hills,  high  wood- 
ed slopes  with  a  towering  red  peak  of  rock  above 
them,  the  head  of  Fire,  the  great  volcano.  Before 
me  across  the  growing  plain  were  other  hills  less 
high,  but  running  up  into  blue  forest-ridges  that 
made  me  impatient  of  my  level  road  between  the 
hedges. 

The  Indians  passed  me  in  an  endless  proces- 
sion of  servitude.  They  were  carrying  earthen 
jugs  and  pots,  and  managed  to  string  twenty  ves- 
sels upon  a  single  frame.  Bowed  under  the  load 
which  was  piled  high  above  their  heads,  they 
trotted  along,  barefooted  or  sandalled,  with  the 


1 8  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

strange  half-running  gait  which  is  their  character- 
istic mode  of  journey.  They  are  no  better  than 
beasts  of  burden.  Cheaper  than  mules,  they  take 
the  four-foot's  place  and  carry  these  wares  to 
markets  that  are  two  and  three  days  distant. 
Short  of  stature,  they  are  tremendously  develop- 
ed in  the  muscles  of  their  legs  and  backs,  but 
feeble  in  their  arms,  and  permanently  bent  from 
their  unenviable  occupation. 

The  pottery  itself  is  crudely  made.  Shaped  on 
a  wheel,  it  is  symmetrical  enough,  but  without  any 
grace  or  character.  The  flame-marks  show  on 
every  piece,  patches  of  black  where  the  clay  has 
been  unevenly  baked.  Strung  on  wooden  frames, 
these  pots  came  down  the  road  with  a  pair  of 
bare  brown  legs  beneath  them,  a  strange  sight  for 
the  unaccustomed.  But  I  rode  into  a  spectacle 
much  worse;  for  as  I  descended  to  a  little  stream 
I  had  the  horrid  experience  of  meeting  a  rigid 
human-being,  wrapped  like  a  mummy  in  pink  cloth 
and  carried  in  a  wooden  frame  on  an  Indian's 
back.  Not  until  I  saw  that  the  protruding  naked 
feet  were  of  wax  did  I  realize  that  I  had  stumbled 
neither  on  crime  nor  on  funeral  ceremony,  but  that 
some  church  was  to  be  enriched  with  the  embodi- 
ment of  a  saint. 

We  breakfasted  at  ten  in  the  village  of  Patzum, 


In  the  Highlands  19 

Colorada  on  a  couple  of  pounds  of  dried  corn, 
myself  on  fried  eggs  and  frijoles,  tortillas,  and 
coffee.  Tortillas  and  frijoles  will  be  common 
words  of  mine  throughout  this  book.  Both  are 
well  enough  in  moderation,  but  to  these  two  in 
Guatemala  there  is  no  end.  Frijoles  are  black 
beans,  always  boiled  and  sometimes  mashed  and 
re-warmed;  tortillas  are  both  a  food  and  a  cere- 
mony. Dried  Indian  corn  is  rubbed  on  stone  to 
a  whitish  flour,  mixed  with  water  to  a  dough, 
moulded  and  patted  to  a  pancake,  baked  on  an 
open  griddle  to  an  uneven  brown,  and  fed  to 
friend  and  foe.  Fresh  and  hot  they  are  very 
good;  and  when  cold  they  can  be  restored  to  the 
category  of  food  by  toasting.  In  the  Maya 
world  frijoles  are  meat  and  tortillas  are  bread. 
Besides  these  there  is  water  in  the  country;  but 
the  favourite  drink  is  the  colourless  brandy  which 
is  distilled  from  crude  cane-sugar.  If  it  were 
deodorized  it  might  sell  for  pure  alcohol.  Of 
this  powerful  intoxicant  there  is  an  unlimited 
supply  and  an  unmoderated  consumption.  Hav- 
ing no  prejudice  against  Bacchus,  I  cannot  be  con- 
sidered partisan  if  I  call  this  the  scourge  of  the 
Indian  race  in  whose  degeneration  and  gradual 
extinction  it  is  one  of  three  prime  factors.  The 
other  two  are  the  changed  habits  of  life  and  the 


20  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

diseases  brought  by  the  white  man.  "We  died 
of  the  blessings  of  civiHsation,"  will  be  written 
on  the  gravestone  of  the  race. 

But  I  had  no  such  thoughts  as  I  rode  away 
from  Patzum.  A  level  road,  a  green  landscape, 
a  sunny  blue  sky  after  a  day  of  rain,  a  wiUing 
mule,  and  an  indolent  rider, — for  once  it  was  the 
time  and  the  place  and  the  loved  things  all  to- 
gether. The  Indians  trotted  by  without  a  look 
or  a  word  of  greeting,  although  when  I  insisted 
on  the  amenities  usual  to  fellow-beings,  they  seem- 
ed much  pleased  at  the  distinction  between  Mayas 
and  mules  which  my  "Good-afternoon"  implied. 

An  hour  passed  without  incident.  Twice  the 
path  skirted  curious  earth  ravines  whose  edges 
dropped  away  sheer  for  a  good  two  hundred  feet. 
The  flat  fertile  table-land  stretched  to  the  very 
brink  without  a  warning  wrinkle  or  shudder;  be- 
yond the  chasm,  it  resumed  its  level  expanse.  I 
tied  Colorada  to  a  bush  and  peered  over  an  un- 
safe edge.  Far  below  were  the  tops  of  trees 
and  the  crowded  green  of  well-watered  and  well- 
shadowed  growth;  but  there  was  neither  stream 
nor  outlet  to  be  seen.  The  ravine  yawned  like 
a  crevasse  in  a  field  of  ice  without  further  geo- 
logic excuse. 

I  rode  on  and  was  beginning  to  think  Guate- 
malan journeying  dull  and  disappointing,  when 


In  the  Highlands  21 

the  path  suddenly  fell  into  one  of  these  abysses. 
In  the  course  of  a  thousand  feet  of  steep  descent 
on  washed-out  rocky  zig-zags,  table-land  and 
corn-field  disappeared,  orchid-covered  moss-hung 
oaks  massed  to  a  forest,  and  cliffs  and  wooded 
ridges  shut  out  half  the  sky.  The  only  apparent 
master  and  maker  of  all  this  scenery  was  a  diminu- 
tive stream  that  twinkled  merrily  along  on  the 
floor  of  the  ravine.  It  was  like  a  kitten  playing 
among  the  overturned  tables  and  broken  china  of 
a  feast,  and  it  seemed  absurd  to  blame  all  that 
havoc  upon  so  small  a  thing. 

Once  down  at  the  bottom,  the  path  splashed 
about  in  the  Httle  stream  till  it  came  to  a  green 
and  lonely  farm  and  there  it  passed  abruptly 
through  a  door  of  rock  whose  traces  of  ancient 
barricading  hinted  of  less  peaceful  times. 
Through  wrinkled  woods  higher  and  higher  above 
the  stream  the  trail  bent  in  and  out  as  it  fol- 
lowed the  creases  of  the  valley-side;  but  just  as 
one  hoped  to  reach  the  rim  of  the  table-land 
above,  it  dropped  again  deeper  than  ever  to  a 
foaming  ford.  Guatemalan  trails  are  fond  of 
such  tricks.  They  lure  the  traveller  within  sight 
of  his  goal  only  to  drop  him  into  interminable 
clefts  and  sink  him  into  hidden  woods  to  "wail 
by  impassable  streams."  Yet  the  solitude  and  the 
endless  trees,  the  glimpses  of  water  and  distant 


22  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

heights,  the  unknown  path  and  the  unexpected 
scenes,  make  up  for  these  uneven  pilgrimages. 

The  Pass  of  the  Langadha,  the  finest  similar 
thing  in  Greece,  is  beggared  by  the  densely  over- 
grown gorges  through  which  I  rode  that  day. 
There  is  no  Sparta  at  the  end  to  make  the 
passage  famous;  yet  I  came  upon  something  whose 
beauty  can  rival  the  fragrant  orange-blossomed 
plain  of  the  Eurotas  below  snow-capped  Tay- 
getos.  At  five  in  the  afternoon,  after  riding  for 
an  hour  high  up  in  mountain  fog  and  shower,  I 
came  down  through  a  village  and  out  upon  the 
steepest  descent  of  the  day.  Crawling  down  step 
by  step  on  ragged  zig-zags  in  the  midst  of  a  down- 
pour of  rain  that  made  a  river  under  Colorada's 
hoofs  and  a  grey  curtain  of  the  air,  I  had  ceased 
to  expect  or  hope,  thinking  it  was  enough  to  be 
still  on  Colorada's  back,  when  in  the  midst  of  my 
wretchedness  the  rain  stopped  with  characteris- 
tic abruptness,  the  wind  blew  holes  in  the  mist, 
and  I  saw  sheer  under  me,  seemingly  thousands 
of  feet,  a  lowland  lake  with  further  shores  of 
cliff.  It  was  fog-magic;  for  I  felt  as  though  I 
were  hung  in  the  clouds,  and  the  plain  was  so 
bright  and  so  fresh  and  so  clear  and  the  lake 
was  of  such  a  summer-blue  that  it  seemed  a  vision 
out  of  another  world  and  the  most  beautiful  sight 
that  I  had  ever  seen. 


In  the  Highlands  23 

Actually  it  was  only  a  few  more  hundred  feet 
down  to  the  plain.  With  the  last  step,  upland 
changed  to  lowland  and  the  path  slipped  into  a 
riot  of  baVnboo,  sugar-cane,  oranges,  limes,  and 
plants  whose  names  are  only  native  words  to 
me.  But  Jordan  had  broken  into  Eden:  for  the 
path  led  demurely  into  a  river  whose  rain- 
swollen  rapid  I  could  not  cross,  even  though  I 
knew  that  dinner  and  bed  dwelt  beyond  the  other 
bank.  The  downpour  began  again.  With  four- 
teen hundred  feet  of  rock  behind  me  and  an  un- 
fordable  river  ahead,  a  sodden  soil  beneath  me 
and  a  falling  sky  above,  I  was  well  encompassed. 
But  an  Indian  appearing  after  a  little  told  me 
of  an  easier  ford  and  showed  me  a  little  jungle- 
track  which  I  had  mistaken  for  an  irrigation- 
ditch  in  action.  Arrived  at  the  passage,  Colo- 
rada  chose  wisely  between  the  two  evils  of  a  spur- 
ring master  and  a  foaming  stream  and  we  were 
soon  in  Panajachel  in  one  of  the  few  Guatemalan 
inns  where  strangers  seem  to  be  really  welcome. 

After  dinner  I  sat  out  in  the  grass-grown  court 
of  the  inn.  The  rain  had  passed,  and  the  day's 
strangeness  was  already  a  memory.  In  the  twi- 
light a  tree-toad  was  piping  his  high-pitched  eve- 
ning song;  the  fire-flies  were  lighting  their 
lamps;  on  the  horizon  a  thunderstorm  was  ris- 


24  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

ing,  and  the  distant  lightning  flared  without  sound. 
The  air  was  warm  and  almost  still.  It  was  a 
northern  evening  of  mid-summer,  and  I  felt  that 
1  was  back  in  the  New  England  hills.  Yet  I  knew 
that  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall  the  Indians 
were  encamped  in  a  Guatemalan  village-square, 
crouching  over  tiny  bonfires  at  which  they  were 
toasting  tortillas  and  brewing  coffee,  or  seated  in 
the  shelter  of  the  raised  wooden  arcade  in  silent 
contemplation  of  their  fellows.  And  beyond  the 
square  were  the  slow-falling  ruins  of  a  church 
built  by  the  vanished  Spaniards,  and  beyond  in 
a  crumbled  belfry  hung  bells  that  were  cast  long 
ago  in  Spain.  For  all  the  illusion  I  was  in  an 
Indian  village,  hemmed  in  by  a  language  that  was 
not  my  own;  and  when  the  clouds  blew  from  the 
sky  it  was  not  the  New  England  constellations 
that   shone   out. 

To  everyone  who  has  emerged  from  the  sub- 
savage  condition  of  treating  the  stars  as  sprin- 
klings from  some  vast  salt-shaker,  unordered 
and  unarrangeable  as  the  sugar-grains  we  strew 
on  cakes,  a  voyage  into  the  Tropics  holds  a  new 
experience.  Some  of  us  read  the  Odyssey  and, 
regarding  the  simple  allusions  to  the  stars  as  lit- 
erary exotics,  miss  the  true  savour  of  that  homely 
narrative.  Others,  however,  have  raised  them- 
selves sufficiently  near  to  the  status  of  the  early 


In  the  Highlands  25 

races  to  find  something  of  comradeship  in  the 
map  of  heaven.  In  Europe  and  in  the  Far  East 
they  lool^  for  the  old  time-endeared  constella- 
tions and,  seeing  them,  find  something  familiar 
and  something  of  home.  But  when  they  travel 
south  across  the  line  of  the  tropics,  there  come, 
night  after  night,  unknown  stars  higher  and 
higher  above  the  horizon  into  which  they  steer. 
The  eternity  of  space  with  its  everlasting  stretches 
we  explain  to  children  for  their  wonder,  without 
feeling  what  we  speak.  To  us  these  are  unpalat- 
able common-places.  But  when  the  familiar  con- 
stellations make  room  for  others  unknown,  there 
blows  over  us  of  a  sudden  a  breath  from  that 
other  half  of  the  unbounded  into  which  we  have 
never  gazed. 

In  much  the  same  way  those  who  have  known 
the  Atlantic  all  their  lives  stare  like  Cortes 
strangely  and  with  an  unexplained  exaltation  on 
the  Pacific  surf  when  first  it  breaks  before  them. 
But  the  southern  skies  are  an  ocean  incompara- 
bly vaster  and  richer.  I  fear  that  I  have  little 
of  ready-made  religion;  but  no  pilgrim  ever  sa- 
luted a  relic  of  Golgotha  with  truer  emotion  than 
I  the  Southern  Cross  and  the  shining  stars  whom 

I  had  never  seen. 

******* 

Next  morning  I  went  swimming  in  the  lake,  to 


26  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

the  amazement  and  Idolatrous  admiration  of  the 
native  boys  who  had  never  seen  the  simple  strokes 
which  I  executed  so  Ineffectively.  These  Indians 
of  Guatemala  are  poor  swimmers,  poor  horsemen, 
poor  judges  of  distance  and  direction,  poor  cooks, 
and  poor  hunters.  They  are  excellent  beasts  of 
burden  and  splendid  fanatics;  but  the  marvellous 
woodcraft  and  primitive  proficiency  with  which 
savage  races  are  so  popularly  endowed  should  be 
sought  elsewhere  than  In  Guatemala. 

As  I  came  ashore  I  discovered  that  the  "drift- 
wood" of  the  sandy  beach  was  a  line  of  pumice 
and  I  forthwith  Indulged  a  small-boy's  idea  of 
pleasure  by  throwing  into  the  water  the  largest 
stones  that  I  could  find.  They  recovered  smil- 
ingly from  the  splash,  to  bob  about  as  serenely 
as  though  there  were  nothing  unusual  In  their  be- 
haviour. 

I  was  not  surprised  to  learn  that  the  lake  of 
Atltlan  had  no  bottom,  for  the  burden  of  proof 
can  be  put  on  the  unbeliever;  but  I  was  not  pre- 
pared to  hear  that  It  had  no  outlet.  For  that  is 
a  matter  which  any  pair  of  eyes  might  settle  to 
the  contrary.     And  this  I  determined  to  do. 

A  white-haired,  round-faced  German  sea-cap- 
tain navigates  a  launch  with  wheel  and  compass 
across  the  ten-mile  deep.  Perhaps  there  are  foggy 


In  the  Highlands  27 

days  to  justify  this  wilful  reminiscence  of  a  sea- 
going life,^or  it  may  be  that  the  ritual  instils  ad- 
ditional respect  into  the  humble  native  mind. 

At  the  long-drawn  blast  of  a  cheap  brass  horn 
the  waiting  Indians  solemnly  gathered  their  packs 
and  trooped  aboard  with  a  couple  of  ragged  and 
dirty  bills  for  the  waiting  captain,  whose  aged 
face  while  he  gathered  the  five-cent  fares  glowed 
with  a  benevolence  hitherto  confined  to  the  an- 
gelic host. 

The  water  was  windless,  in  colour  more  green 
than  blue.  Cliffs  and  mountain-slopes  shut  it  in, 
making  their  ring  more  marked  by  their  clear  re- 
flections. On  the  furthest  shore  stood  two  vol- 
canoes with  their  heads  in  cloud.  The  world 
seemed  silent  and  sun-flooded.  Nature  has  her 
own  calendar  and  this  was  her  Sabbath  of  rest. 
It  is  a  day  which  the  human  calendar  in  Central 
America  intercalates  with  an  almost  diurnal  as- 
siduity, but  which  is  only  impressive  when  wind 
and  water  proclaim  it. 

The  Indians  crouched  on  the  deck,  without 
comment  or  question  among  themselves,  while  the 
launch  puffed  over  the  quiet  surface  and  the  cliffs 
rose  higher  behind  us  as  the  distance  increased. 
Only  an  Axenstrasse  could  girdle  Atitlan,  Even 
the  shaggiest  paths  have  to  turn  inland,  so  that 


28  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

it  becomes  a  long  and  difficult  day's  ride  to  reach 
the  villages  to  which  the  launch  crosses  in  a  couple 
of  hours. 

There  was  in  truth  no  outlet  to  the  lake. 
Where  it  might  have  been,  the  volcanoes  have 
pushed  up  their  barriers.  Between  the  cones  of 
Toliman  and  San  Pedro  the  water  has  run  in, 
but  a  lava  wall  shuts  off  farther  progress.  Thus 
a  deep  bay  is  formed,  on  whose  steep  shore  stands 
Atitlan,  the  village  from  which  the  lake  has  its 
name.  It  is  one  of  the  oldest  Guatemalan  towns 
and  is  mentioned  in  the  Spanish  chronicles  as  the 
home  of  the  Tzutohiles,  a  tribe  whose  name  has 
nowadays  more  flavour  than  significance. 

Going  ashore,  I  found  myself  back  in  my  boy- 
hood Africa  of  du  Chaillu.  There  was  nothing 
to  suggest  Spain  or  Spaniard.  People  and  life 
were  savage.  The  houses  were  built  with  walls 
of  split  bamboo,  pervious  to  smoke  from  within 
and  eyesight  from  without.  The  pointed  roofs 
of  palm-leaf  ended  in  a  central  earthen  pot  that 
covered  the  radiating  thatch.  I  was  looking  on 
the  prototype  of  the  Greek  round  temple  and  I 
had  before  me  the  origin  of  the  elaborate  central 
poppy-flower  which  crowned  the  marble  Olym- 
pian tholos  of  Philip  of  Macedon.  My  thoughts, 
in  fact,  were  rather  far  afield;  for  an  "African" 
village  is  amazingly  dull.     But  my  speculations 


In  the  Highlands  29 

came  out  of  the  Hellenic  past  and  leaped  from 
the  chill  of  architecture  to  the  human  warmth  of 
sculpture  when  the  bare-legged  Indian  girls  came 
down  the  rocky  street  to  fill  their  water-pitchers. 
With  one  hand  raised  to  the  empty  vessel  on  their 
head  they  descended  with  a  pack-mule's  sure- 
footedness  and  more  than  a  pack-mule's  grace. 
It  was  after  they  had  waded  into  the  lake,  filled 
the  jug,  replaced  it  on  their  heads,  and  begun 
to  reascend  with  both  arms  raised  to  steady  the 
heavy  burden,  that  I  realized  that  eurhythmies 
were  folly  and  that  our  daughters  should  be 
taught  to  carry  water-jugs.  And  as  they  wore  so 
little  clothing  with  such  obvious  propriety, — but 
that  ruins  my  scheme  for  our  northern  daughters. 

There  are  other  villages  on  the  shores  of  Atit- 
lan,  slightly  differing  in  size  and  appearance,  but 
alike  in  their  monotony.  It  is  not  the  little  towns 
which  are  interesting  in  Guatemala,  but  the  open 
country.  And  among  all  the  scenery  through 
which  I  was  to  ride  there  was  to  be  nothing  more 
beautiful  than  this. 

In  clear  weather  Atitlan  is  a  blue  mountain- 
lake  shut  in  by  green  heights  and  dark  walls  where 
waterfalls  hang  like  white  ribbons.  The  fine  clear 
forms  of  the  great  volcanoes  break  the  line  of 
girdling  hills  and  add  their  smooth  green  slopes 
to  the  scene's  tranquillity.     There  are  no  vine- 


30  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

yards  nor  gardens  to  suggest  North  Italy,  but  an 
incomparable  fertility  and  a  far-away  inland 
charm  of  sunlit  isolation. 

In  time  of  storm  all  this  is  changed.  When 
the  lightning  pours  over  it  and  the  rain-gusts 
sweep  across  it  Atitlan  has  a  sudden  grim  and 
terrifying  appearance.  The  circle  of  rock  dark- 
ens and  closes  in,  the  clouds  come  down  like  a 
cover  to  a  kettle,  and  in  the  vast  crater,  lifted 
a  mile  In  air  above  the  Pacific  level,  the  storm 
stirs  wind  and  wave  to  a  black  witches'-brew  in 
an  uproar  of  water  and  air  and  fire.  After  it 
all,  when  the  rain  has  passed  and  the  wind  has 
dropped,  the  green  slopes  suddenly  reappear 
fresher  and  brighter  and  above  the  wild  dark 
walls  with  their  curled  cornice  of  clouds  shines 
the  childishly  innocent  blue  of  Fra  Angelico's 
paradise. 

It  is  a  region  of  moods  and  changing  moments 
whose  variety  seems  inexhaustible.  Outstaying 
my  intentions,  exploring  its  woods  and  valleys 
and  towns  and  climbing  some  of  its  heights,  I 
found  it  ever  more  beautiful.  When  at  last  I 
came  to  leave  it  I  was  already  convinced  that 
I  should  find  nothing  finer  in  Central  America. 
Though  I  knew  that  it  could  not  be  true,  I  had 
come  to  sympathize  with  the  kindly  old  man  of  the 
inn   who    had    said    so    simply   and    so    quietly, 


In  the  Highlands  31 

"Atitlan,  youjcnow,  is  the  most  beautiful  spot  in 

the  world." 
******* 

I  left  Panajachel  early  in  the  morning.  In  a 
season  where  daily  rain  ruins  the  afternoon  my 
habits  were  growing  more  and  more  matutinal. 
In  the  end  I  was  to  reach  the  native  stage  of 
ultimate  attainment  and  saddle  Colorada  by  can- 
dle-light ten  minutes  before  the  first  dawn.  But 
Panajachel  came  early  in  my  travels,  before  a 
receding  breakfast  had  reached  those  sunless 
hours,  and  it  was  seven  o'clock  before  I  was  well 
upon  my  road. 

The  path  climbed  the  steep  mountain-side,  lead- 
ing at  times  along  rocky  shelves,  at  times  by  hewn 
steps  of  stone  and  once  through  the  spray  of  a 
waterfall,  while  the  lake  sank  slowly  below  me, 
growing  bluer  and  brighter  as  it  receded.  New 
heights  rose  behind  the  familiar  hills  and  far  on 
the  south-eastern  horizon  I  saw  a  peaked  hat  of 
rock  which  I  recognized  to  be  Fire,  the  towering 
friend  of  my  previous  ride.  At  the  top  of  the 
wall  the  path  turned  inland  and  I  soon  reached 
the  large  and  uninteresting  village  of  Solola. 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  make  a  diary  of  such 
uneventful  progress.  Just  as  it  is  art's  privilege 
not  to  paint  everything  in  a  landscape,  so  I  in- 
tend to  change  the  perspective  which  the  ticking 


32  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

clock  of  the  present  imposed  upon  me  as  I  rode 
hour  after  hour  and  day  after  day,  and  to  set 
the  past  in  a  temporal  setting  where  many  an 
hour  in  the  saddle  may  drop  from  sight  and  in- 
tervening distances  (if  they  were  but  dull 
stretches)  may  cease  to  divide. 

On  this  day,  therefore,  I  find  myself  passing 
through  pine  woods  ful)  of  noisy  flocks  of  the 
bluest  of  jays  and  straightway  thereafter  begging 
black-beans  and  tortillas  in  a  thatched  and  smoky 
Indian  hut,  as  though  one  had  but  to  emerge 
from  that  bird-haunted  thicket  to  encounter  the 
dirty  little  village  which  so  grudgingly  prepared 
me  so  poor  a  midday  meal.  And  hardly  is  the 
meal  over  when  I  am  on  a  great  hill-side,  mount- 
ing amid  orchid-covered  oaks  through  cool,  deep 
shadows,  only  to  be  caught  in  a  torrential  thunder- 
storm from  which  even  those  great  trees  cannot 
shelter  me.  The  path  turns  into  a  flight  of  care- 
fully paved  steps,  and  the  steps  into  a  brown 
torrent  where  Colorada  and  I  stumble  up,  with 
occasional  backward  glimpses  at  the  uplands 
which  we  have  left  so  far  below  us,  till  we  emerge 
on  a  sodden  Alpine  meadow  ten  thousand  feet 
above  the  sea.  And  here  the  sun  comes  out,  the 
lush  green  shines,  and  song-sparrows  try  again 
their  northern  song.  There  are  flowers,  shep- 
herds with  their  sheep,  and  over  us  all  a  bright 


In  the  Highlands  33 

sky  and  a  cool  wind.  It  is  that  rare  thing, — ^an 
idyll  that  is  not  just  between  the  covers  of  a 
book  but  out  in  the  world  of  real  things  where 
there  is  none  of  the  falseness  of  fine  writing. 
Being  of  that  unenduring  kingdom,  it  soon  is 
over.  In  its  place  come  muddy  paths,  hard  to 
find  and  slippery  to  follow,  marshalling  a  seem- 
ingly unlimited  array  of  yet-remaining  miles.  But 
if  one  is  fairly  inured  to  the  saddle  and  fond 
of  the  uplands,  no  more  beautiful  ride  could  be 
imagined. 

I  must  have  loitered  on  my  way,  for  it  was 
nearly  dusk  before  I  came  to  the  edge  of  the  up- 
lands. The  twinkling  lights  were  beginning  to 
come  out  in  the  little  checker-board  of  a  town 
below  me  and  before  Colorada  had  swung  her 
leisurely  nose  around  the  last  zig-zag  of  the  de- 
scent It  was  dark.  Luckily  there  were  hedges 
and  soon  there  were  houses  to  shut  us  in  upon 
our  stumbling  path,  and  though  once  I  thought 
I  had  found  a  sheer  descent  to  Cocytus  we  came 
to  the  lights  at  last.  They  were  electric  and 
illumined  street-corners  whose  signs  announced 
numbered  avenues  and  streets.  Colorada  as- 
sumed a  metropolitan  air  of  Indifferent  gentility 
whose  leisure  I  ended  rudely  with  my  spurs.  We 
clattered  down  the  streets  Into  the  deserted 
market-place,  gathered  Information  from  the  sen- 


34  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

try  of  the  garrison,  and  ended  our  long  day's  ride 
in  the  Central  Hotel,  Totonicapan,  Los  Altos, 
Guatemala  (C.  A.).  Colorada's  stall  was  oppo- 
site mine,  though  an  intervening  couple  of  long- 
horned  sheep,  a  sore-backed  mare  with  her  ragged 
rumply-coated  filly,  and  an  Indian  stable-boy 
made   communication   difficult. 

I  dined  poorly  and  slept  well.  When  I  woke 
it  was  early  morning,  grey  with  rain.  My  itin- 
erary for  the  day  was  thus  already  settled, — to 
Colorada's  complete  satisfaction.  At  ten  o'clock 
it  cleared  suddenly  and  I  went  a-foot  to  see  the 
town,  though  I  knew  beforehand  what  I  should 
find: — a  cabildo,  a  garrison,  and  a  line  of  gen- 
eral shops  around  an  open  paved  square;  a 
church,  with  dark,  empty  floor  of  red  tile,  wax 
images  dressed  in  gaudy  calicoes,  altarpieces  over- 
loaded with  gilding,  and  Indian  women  reciting 
endless  petitions  in  their  own  weird  tongue;  be- 
yond that,  only  an  occasional  open  shop-front  and 
the  blank  one-storied  line  of  homes.  To  pass 
a  sunny  hour  in  the  streets  of  Totonicapan  one 
has  need  of  the  Old  Dutch  Masters'  eyes,  ap- 
preciative of  homely  squalor  and  the  picturesque- 
ness  of  petty  things;  but  to  pass  a  rainy  afternoon 
in  the  same  town  one  needs  the  devil's  own  in- 
dulgence for  eternity.  I  returned  to  my  quar- 
ters,  lunched,    and   soon    afterwards   began  my 


SURVIVORS    OF    EARTHQUAKE 


In  the  Highlands  35 

inevitable  traveler's  refrain  of  "Quid  nunc?" 
After  I  had  made  a  veterinary  round  of  insincere 
affection  which  included  two  starved  dogs  (who 
were  interested  in  everything) ,  the  mare  and  her 
filly  (who  were  interested  only  in  each  other),  the 
sheep  (who  were  chiefly  interested  in  salt),  and 
three  alien  mules  (who  were  interested  in  noth- 
ing at  all) , — after  all  this  I  looked  at  my  watch 
and  saw  that  it  was  half  past  two.  I  studied 
my  map  for  an  hour  or  more — and  found  that  it 
was  twenty  minutes  to  three.  Then  I  sat  around 
for  a  long .  time  and  finally  crossed  the  street 
to  play  on  the  billiard-table  (for  every  Guate- 
malan town  must  have  billiard-tables,  sky-rockets, 
sewing  machines,  and  a  Temple  of  Minerva : 
nothing  else  matters).  But  the  famous  Mikado 
had  been  there  before  me  and  attained  his  in- 
famous Object  All-sublime.  And  now  it  was 
nearly  three  o'clock.  A  tame  deer  entered  the 
room  and  had  late  luncheon  on  the  floor  and  a 
large  parrot,  seeing  me  bored,  obliged  with  an 
impersonation  of  a  derelict  Indian  baby  in  acute 
whooping-cough.  I  flatter  myself  that  I  suc- 
ceeded in  openly  wounding  his  histrionic  pride  by 
leaving  the  room  at  once. 

It  was  now  still  nearly  three  o'clock.  I  found 
a  bleary  German  who  was  taking  "The  Baths." 
He  took  them  very  early  in  the  morning  as  he 


36  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

preferred  to  precede  native  patronage.  He  ob- 
jected to  the  Indian  women  more  than  to  the 
men  and  had  an  ahnost  profane  aversion  to  the 
ultra-modern  practise  of  what  I  might  scientifi- 
cally describe  as  syncolymbesis  of  the  sexes.  But 
my  new  friend  soon  left  me  to  attend  to  some 
sausages  {sic!)  in  a  critical  stage  of  manufac- 
ture, and  after  a  little  the  clock  at  last  managed 
to  strike  three.  It  was  raining  hard — and  din- 
ner was  at  six.  In  the  distance,  the  parrot  had 
taken  to  such  fits  of  idiotic  laughter  that  I  de- 
termined to  have  him  shot  at  sun-rise.  Such  are 
the  diversions  and  excitements  of  a  Central  Amer- 
ican village. 

We  are  snobs  with  our  affectations  of  culture, 
our  sets  and  our  fads  and  our  civilized  banali- 
ties. Instead  of  taking  delight  in  our  music  and 
our  art  for  what  they  are,  we  ruin  our  enjoy- 
ment with  sophisticated  prejudices  and  discrimi- 
nations. How  differently  we  should  feel  if  only 
we  could  be  brought  to  realize  that  cultural  civili- 
sation is  the  inestimable  sun  that  lights  the  hor- 
rible darkness  of  sentient  life  I  I  myself  shall 
relapse  into  snobbery  and  discriminations.  But 
for  a  little  while,  in  Totonicapan,  eight  thousand 
feet  in  the  hills,  with  never  a  book  or  a  friend 
or  a  game  or  a  theatre  or  a  concert  or  a  beauti- 
ful object,  in  rain  and  utter  loneliness,  I  almost 


In  the  Highlands  37 

understood  the  worth  of  our  European  heirloom 
of  4000  years. 

What  a  difference  rain  can  make  I  The  dis- 
similarities of  a  Yorkshireman  and  a  Neapolitan 
are  largely  a  matter  of  rain.  The  Arab  is  an  Arab 
because  of  the  desert  and  the  desert  is  a  desert 
because  of  the  rain.  My  Guatemalan  life  was  a 
quilt-work  of  contrasting  emotions,  all  traceable 
to  that  single  cause.  The  Eternal  within  us  is  in 
league  with  the  Temporal  and  the  spirit's  glass 
is  only  too  often  indistinguishable  from  the  ba- 
rometer. My  mental  weather-chart  for  almost 
any  of  those  days  of  mule-back  journeying  might 
have  run  as  follows: 

As  I  rode  up  out  of  the  valley  in  the  morning 
and  the  bugles  blew  in  the  little  town  at  Colo- 
rada's  feet,  the  discomforts  of  the  night  were 
forgotten.  The  bugles  were  out  of  tune,  but  the 
sense  of  their  discordance  penetrated  no  further 
than  the  brain.  The  mist  rose  from  the  plain 
and  the  sunlight  was  clear  and  sharp  on  the  hills. 
Day-light  and  morning  air  and  an  unknown  path, 
they  were  like  the  singing  of  birds  in  one's  heart 
and  the  blowing  of  fresh  winds  across  the  spirit. 
Ten  hours  later  it  was  a  different  world.  The 
rain  poured  down  and  the  mountain-fog  shut 
out  every  view.  The  steep  paths  were  water- 
torrents, — endless     brown     fordings     amid     the 


38  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

stones,  slippery  mud-slides  elsewhere.  There 
was  no  shelter,  since  the  day's  appointed  goal 
must  be  made  before  dusk.  The  steady  rain,  the 
plodding  pace  became  part  of  the  mind.  The 
spirit's  eye  grew  as  cloudy  as  the  rain-hung  corn- 
fields, motionless  and  impenetrable  as  the  great 
dripping  woods.  But  it  all  ended,  with  food  and 
warmth  and  a  bed  at  last.  And  the  next  morn- 
ing under  a  blue  sky  I  was  off  through  the  early 
light  again  and  as  I  rode  up  out  of  the  valley 
the  bugles  blew  in  some  other  little  town  at  Colo- 
rada's  feet. 

Here  more  than  elsewhere,  life  was  a  contrast 
of  wet  and  dry.  But  I  suspect  that  elsewhere, 
too,  though  it  be  less  obvious  than  in  Totoni- 
capan,  the  weather  is  in  the  end  responsible  for 
most  of  our  human  behaviour. 

And  these  intolerable  reflections,  likewise,  were 
after  all  due  only  to  the  rain;  and  when  it  ceased 
within  an  hour  I  forgot  my  gloominess  and  went 
for  another  walk. 

Guatemala  is  a  land  where  the  small  boy's 
prerogative  of  jeering  and  reviling  the  stranger 
for  his  strangeness'  sake  is  under  abeyance  or  un- 
known. Everywhere  my  costume  aroused  indig- 
nation in  the  dogs;  but  the  Indians  refrained  even 
from  that  wordless  comment  which  a  stare  con- 


In  the  Highlands  39 

veys.  That  afternoon  beyond  Totonicapan, 
walking,  though  I  obviously  belonged  on  mule- 
back,  only  the  four-foot  mongrel  remarked  upon 
my  condition;  until,  while  trying  to  propitiate  one 
of  my  yelping  critics,  I  fell  victim  to  suspicion. 

Never  have  I  seen  such  pitiful  dogs  as  in  Cen- 
tral America.  Canine  anatomy  may  here  be 
studied  without  dissection.  Graveyard  carcasses 
slink  on  forlorn  foragings.  Even  the  frijoles  and 
tortillas  seem  denied  to  them.  The  affection  of 
their  masters  neither  includes  food  nor  excludes 
missiles.  The  poor  animals  are  little  better  than 
starveling  outcasts  sneaking  lifelong  to  the  grave. 
And  even  the  grave  is  precarious,  or  rather  its 
absence  only  too  assured.  The  cowled  directors 
of  their  funerals,  the  buzzards,  stare  down  at 
them  from  the  thatched  ridge  of  their  own  mas- 
ter's roof  as  though  they  begrudged  them  even 
those  few  days  of  living  wretchedness. 

So  I  was  surprised  at  the  suspicion  into  which 
I  fell  through  being  discovered  in  my  overtures 
to  a  nasty  little  dog;  for  the  beast  had  been  born 
with  his  tail  between  his  legs  and  a  yelp  in  his 
throat. 

Further  on  I  assisted  a  young  fowl  who  seemed 
unreasonably  upset  at  the  very  natural  discovery 
that  she  could  not  ascend  a  perfectly  sheer  em- 
bankment.   During  our  efforts  there  appeared  an 


40  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

Indian  boy.  Only  my  distinguished  leggings  saved 
my  reputation. 

The  indulgent  reader  will  see  that  I  am  not 
wasting  his  patience  upon  anecdotes  of  the  poul- 
try-yard, but  laying  bare  a  deep  racial  difference. 

For  example,  I  hold  it  self-evident  that  every- 
one should  be  interested  in  young  pigs, — little 
trotters  and  friskers  I  mean,  delightful  snouty 
little  fellows  with  bright  eyes.  But  I  found 
that  when  I  met  them  twinkling  to  market  my  elo- 
quent interest  was  always  viewed  by  the  Indians 
with  the  uneasiness  with  which  we  regard  the  in- 
comprehensible and  fantastic.  Yet  a  team  of 
seven  in  harness  trotting  up  a  steep  mountain- 
path  is  as  much  a  sight  as  is  a  coach-and-four, 
especially  if  one  considers  that  the  slightest  ac- 
cident may  convert  the  driver  into  a  badly  wound 
May-pole. 

Everywhere  my  advances  to  animals  were  con- 
sistently misunderstood,  even  by  the  victims  of 
my  affection.  Colorada  alone  came  to  compre- 
hend that  a  raised  hand  can  fall  lightly. 

That  evening  when  I  entered  for  dinner  I  found 
three  men  already  at  table, — an  abiding  and  in- 
separable trinity  whose  outward  number  I  in- 
creased to  four  without  in  any  way  disturbing 
those  properties  peculiar  to  the  triangle. 


In  the  Highlands  41 

Of  that  mutually  devoted  crew  the  third  never 
left  any  impression  on  me.  From  meal  to  meal 
I  forgot  him.  He  was  one  of  those,  no  doubt, 
who  keep  the  world's  work  done,  reliable  and 
unobtrusive,  dull  as  the  cog-wheel  whose  func- 
tion in  society  he  performed.  I  am  ready  to  al- 
low that  he  may  have  been  the  best  man  of  the 
three ;  but  as  he  made  no  impression  I  am  obliged 
to.  leave  him  out.  Of  the  other  two  there  is  more 
to  say. 

One  was  the  German  sausage-maker,  my  ac- 
quaintance of  the  early  afternoon.  Profanity  was 
to  his  conversation  what  spices  must  have  been  to 
his  sausages:  a  plentiful  inspersion  suited  the  cli- 
mate. His  past  was  a  veritable  sausage-meat  of 
strange  happenings.  He  was  a  man  stuffed  and 
seasoned  with  experience.  But  this  I  learned 
later,  for  at  the  time  I  had  eyes  only  for  the 
remaining  spirit  of  that  trinity. 

He  was  an  Indian  and  a  barber.  Small-headed, 
with  dirty  black  curls  standing  out  in  nodding 
animation,  he  had  the  tiny  alert  eyes  of  a  prowl- 
ing night-animal.  He  used  his  forefinger  in  con- 
versation and  would  cock  his  head  and  regard  it 
with  the  bright  excitement  of  a  crafty  child.  He 
was  forever  saying  witty  things  which  to  me  as 
invariably  seemed  without  point.  By  a  display 
of  interest  and  some  faded  photographs  he  tried 


42  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

to  lure  me  into  submission  to  his  black  craft; 
but  I  wanted  none  of  his  barbarous  rites,  and 
I  fear  that  a  slight  coldness  sprang  up  between 
us.  While  the  sausage-maker  and  I  talked 
rheumatism  and  German  submarines,  he  would 
watch  us  in  moody  silence  like  an  Olympian 
estranged,  an  unsuspected  shepherd  of  Admetus. 
Then  suddenly  he  would  blow  off  all  his  ill-hu- 
mour in  a  sparkling  geyser-jet  of  discourse,  be- 
showering  the  little  Indian  waiter  who  at  the  end 
of  an  attentive  listening  would  emit  an  "Ah,  si!" 
which  showed  only  too  clearly  that  he  had  made 
nothing  of  Figaro  or  of  Spanish. 

The  sausage-maker  was  a  different  character. 
His  shirt  seemed  always  on  the  verge  of  dis- 
missal to  the  tub,  yet  never  so  soiled  itself  as 
to  bring  about  that  painful  separation.  His  sus- 
penders dispensed  with  buttons  by  a  seamanlike 
use  of  marlin  at  crucial  junctions.  Coat  and  hat 
were  to  him  unessential,  though  Totonicapan  is 
anything  but  tropical.  His  sharp  face  was  wrin- 
kled, worn  more  by  that  capricious  weather  which 
we  call  adversity  than  by  the  far  less  trying  me- 
teorological changes  of  wind  and  rain  and  sun. 
He  had  no  respect  for  god  or  devil,  much  less  for 
human-kind.  But  as  this  attitude  arose  from 
knowledge  and  not  from  braggardism,  he  was 
endurable  enough  (considering  the  latitude).     In 


In  the  Highlands  43 

fact  he  was  socialist  rather  than  anarchist,  and 
seasoned  enough  to  have  discovered  that  the  mil- 
lennium would  not  occur  during  his  life-time. 

A  fortnight  later  when  I  was  again  in  Totoni- 
capan  he  told  me  his  story.  And  as  I  have  no 
table-talk  from  that  first  dinner  with  the  trinity, 
I  may  be  allowed  to  enliven  its  rice  and  black- 
beans,  faded  meat,  tortillas,  stewed  papaya,  and 
coffee,  by  relating  here  as  I  later  heard  it 

The  Sausage-maker' s  Romance 

He  began  mortal  miseries  as  a  Hanoverian 
peasant-baby  and  gained  a  German  strength  of 
foot  and  tongue  on  a  tiny  farm.  But  of  those 
bucolic  years  he  had  little  to  say  and  my  first 
good  glimpse  of  him  was  in  the  heart  of  Africa 
with  the  great  Stanley.  For  more  than  a  year 
he  was  member  of  the  party:  quorum  si  pars 
magna  fuit  one  may  perhaps  determine  by  read- 
ing the  memoirs  of  that  strong-handed  adven- 
turer. When  a  Belgian  caravan  at  length  en- 
countered them  the  smell  of  the  coast  was  strong 
in  the  Hanoverian's  nostrils.  Without  overmuch 
ceremony  he  said  his  farewells  to  Stanley  and 
went  with  the  Belgians  down  to  the  ships.  From 
Stanley,  he  declared,  he  had  learned  his  English, 
— ^the  humour  of  which  remark  the  great  explorer 
would  have  been  the  first  to  admit.     Perhaps 


44  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

some  of  the  fabric  was  laid  In  the  jungle,  but  the 
embroidery  seems  to  have  been  added  later  when 
he  cruised  the  seven  seas  with  the  baccalaureate 
distinction  of  the  fo'c'sle. 

His  exodus  from  the  jungle  could  not  have 
been  entirely  surreptitious.  For  later,  in  Aus- 
tralia, he  encountered  Stanley  again,  and  Stanley, 
the  great  Stanley,  clapped  him  on  the  back  before 
all  the  crowd  and  acknowledged  him  for  com- 
rade. The  exact  words  of  that  unforgettable 
greeting  were  sensible  and  sufficient:  "By  God, 
here's  Weissmann!"  said  Stanley;  and  the  tears 
came  to  the  German's  eyes  as  he  told  the  Inci- 
dent. 

Whaling  and  carrying  cargo  in  sailing  vessels 
the  future  stuffer-of-sausages  had  been  blown  like 
a  thistledown  about  the  habitable  and  less  than 
habitable  earth,  nowhere  striking  root.  But  at 
last,  somehow,  he  stuck  In  Central  America,  where 
he  put  some  money  Into  mines  and  gradually  grew 
rich.  That  was  life's  hey-day.  Marrying  a 
Guatemalan  girl  he  had  children  and  content- 
ment and  an  easy  affluence. 

And  now  mark  the  perlpatesis  and  the  good 
Greek  descent  Into  misery.  Suddenly,  In  Costa 
Rica,  wife  and  children  died  of  fever  and  a  fail- 
ing Investment  shore  away  his  wealth.  Broken 
in  heart  and  pocket,  he  returned  to  Guatemala 


In  the  Highlands  45 

and  there  In  the  good  German-American  tradi- 
tion took  to  an  old  and  casual  employment.  The 
sausages  which  he  made  were  bought  by  the  Ger- 
man coffee-planters.  As  these  are  numerous, 
business  went  well  enough,  in  a  grey  and  dreary 
fashion.  The  lonely  old  wanderer  stuffed  his 
sausages  and  smoked  his  hams  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders  at  the  world,  until  age  and  the  humors 
of  his  trade  brought  rheumatism.  Then  fell  the 
final  blow. 

In  need  of  a  cure,  he  entrusted  the  business  to 
his  Mexican  assistant  and  went  away  to  the  hot 
baths.  He  returned  to  empty  rooms,  to  walls 
without  pictures,  floors  without  tables  or  beds  or 
chairs  or  carpets,  worst  of  all  to  a  shop  without 
showcase  or  stock  and  a  shed  without  machinery. 
A  sudden  access  of  nostalgia  had  swept  the  Mex- 
ican across  the  border  into  a  land  where  there  is 
no  finding  of  fugitives  and  no  redress. 

With  nothing  but  the  clothes  on  his  back  the 
old  man  had  wandered  to  Totonicapan  in  the 
hills;  and  there  the  baths  had  cured  him.  He 
made  sausages  for  the  inn-keeper  in  lieu  of  coin 
of  the  realm.  Three  times  a  week  he  made  them ; 
the  rest  of  the  time,  standing  or  sitting  or  re- 
clining, he  cursed  the  English  and  his  rheuma- 
tism and  lived  forlornly  between  bed  and  board. 
In  that  dirty  and  uneventful  town  a  long  life  of 


46  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

adventure  and  marvel  was  shut  up  in  a  forlorn 
old  body,  fading  slowly  away  into  dreary  forget- 
fulness. 

I  asked  him  whether  it  would  do  any  good  to 
make  more  sausages.  "If  I  make  more,"  he 
answered,  "and  give  them  to  the  Indians  to  ped- 
dle, they  get  drunk  on  the  money  and  the  sausages 
go  to  Hell.  In  this  country,"  said  he  with  con- 
cluding emphasis,  "it's  no  damned  use  to 
work.  .  .  ." 

Such  is  the  Sausage-maker's  Romance;  and  if 
the  story  reads  a  little  differently  in  the  Angel 
Michael's  golden  book,  the  fault  does  not  lie 
with  me. 


CHAPTER  II 

MIRAGE  OF  QUICHE 

QuEZALTENANGO  IS  the  second  city  of  Guate- 
mala. It  is  not  wholly  uninteresting,  as  it  offers 
the  remnants  of  an  old  church,  the  ready  spec- 
tacle of  Indian  market,  and  the  associations  of 
a  history  of  at  least  four  hundred  years.  It  was 
on  the  nearby  plain  toward  Totonicapan  that  Al- 
varado  fought  the  tumultuous  battle  in  which 
he  broke  the  power  of  the  Indians  of  Quiche. 
There  is  a  peculiar  flavour  to  these  early  inci- 
dents from  the  days  of  the  conquistadores  which, 
like  tropic  fruit,  should  be  tasted  at  least  once  for 
the  experience;  and  I  can  do  no  better  than  to 
serve  this  meal  from  the  pages  of  Stephens' 
book:^ 

"We  were  again  on  classic  soil.  The  reader 
perhaps  requires  to  be  reminded  that  the  city 
stands  on  the  site  of  the  ancient  Xelahuh,  next  to 
Utatlan,  the  largest  city  in  Quiche,  the  word 
Xelahuh    meaning    "under    the    governm.ent    of 

*J.  L.  Stephens.  Incidents  of  Travel  in  Central  America, 
Chiapas,  and  Yucatan.  2  vols.  1841.  Harper  &  Bros.  Long 
out  of  print,  but  not  impossible  to  secure. 

47 


48  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

ten";  that  is,  It  was  governed  by  ten  principal 
captains,  each  captain  presiding  over  eight  thou- 
sand dwellings,  in  all  eighty  thousand,  and  con- 
taining, according  to  Fuentes,  more  than  three 
hundred  thousand  inhabitants;  that  on  the  defeat 
of  Tecum  Umam  by  Alvarado,  the  inhabitants 
abandoned  the  city,  and  fled  to  their  ancient  for- 
tresses, Excansel  the  volcano,  and  Cekxak,  an- 
other mountain  adjoining;  that  the  Spaniards  en- 
tered the  deserted  city,  and,  according  to  a  manu- 
script found  in  the  village  of  San  Andres  Xecul, 
their  videttes  captured  the  four  celebrated 
caciques,  whose  names,  the  reader  doubtless  re- 
members, were  Calel  Kalek,  Ahpopgueham,  Cal- 
alahan,  and  Calelaboy;  the  Spanish  records  say 
that  they  fell  on  their  knees  before  Pedro  Al- 
varado, while  a  priest  explained  to  them  the  na- 
ture of  the  Christian  faith,  and  they  declared 
themselves  ready  to  embrace  it.  Two  of  them 
were  retained  as  hostages,  and  the  others  sent 
back  to  the  fortresses,  who  returned  with  such 
multitudes  of  Indians  ready  to  be  baptized,  that 
the  priests,  from  sheer  fatigue,  could  no  longer 
lift  their  arms  to  perform  the  ceremony." 

I  may  be  fortunate  enough  to  introduce  the 
reader  to  the  book  from  which  this  passage 
comes.  The  cumbrous  title  hides  the  garrulous 
and  adventurous  journeys  of  an  American  am- 


Mirage  of  Quiche  49 

bassador  in  search  of  a  government  in  the  days 
when  Central  America  was  a  flame  of  civil  wars 
and  Guatemala  was  dominated  by  a  remarkable 
Indian  peasant,  unable  to  sign  his  name  but  able 
to  enforce  his  will.  I  came  to  a  Quezaltenango 
void  of  incidents  or  life.  Stephens  reached  it 
on  the  morrow  of  a  revolution  needlessly  drowned 
in  blood.  So  idle  are  these  days  and  so  stirring 
were  those  and  so  striking  is  the  picture  of  the 
Indian  Carrera,  that  it  is  Stephens  who  is  here 
in  place.   .  .   . 

"Early  the  next  morning  Carrera  marched  into 
Quezaltenango,  with  the  cura  and  Don  Juan  as 
prisoners.  The  municipality  waited  upon  him  in 
the  plaza;  but,  unhappily,  the  Indian  intrusted 
with  the  letter  to  Morazan  had  loitered  in  the 
town,  and  at  this  unfortunate  moment  presented 
it  to  Carrera.  Before  his  secretary  had  finished 
reading  it,  Carrera,  in  a  transport  of  fury,  drew 
his  sword  to  kill  them  on  the  spot  with  his  own 
hand,  wounded  Molina,  the  alcalde-mayor,  and 
two  other  members  of  the  municipality,  but 
checked  himself  and  ordered  the  soldiers  to  seize 
them.  He  then  rode  to  the  corregidor,  where 
he  again  broke  out  Into  fury,  and  drew  his  sword 
upon  him.  A  woman  in  the  room  threw  herself 
before  the  corregidor,  and  Carrera  struck  around 
her   several   times,   but   finally   checked   himself 


50  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

again,  and  ordered  the  corregidor  to  be  shot  un- 
less he  raised  five  thousand  dollars  by  contri- 
butions upon  the  town.  Don  Juan  and  the  cura 
he  had  locked  up  in  a  room  with  the  threat  to 
shoot  them  at  five  o'clock  that  afternoon  unless 
they  paid  him  one  thousand  dollars  each,  and 
the  former  two  hundred,  and  the  latter  one  hun- 
dred to  his  secretary.  Don  Juan  was  the  prin- 
cipal merchant  in  the  town,  but  even  for  him  it 
was  difficult  to  raise  that  sum.  The  poor  cura 
told  Carrera  that  he  was  not  worth  a  cent  in 
the  world  except  his  furniture  and  books.  No 
one  was  allowed  to  visit  him  except  the  old  house- 
keeper who  first  told  us  the  story.  Many  of  his 
friends  had  fled  or  hidden  themselves  away,  and 
the  old  housekeeper  ran  from  place  to  place  with 
notes  written  by  him,  begging  five  dollars,  ten 
dollars,  anything  she  could  get.  One  old  lady 
sent  him  a  hundred  dollars.  At  four  o'clock, 
with  all  his  efforts,  he  had  raised  but  seven  hun- 
dred dollars;  but,  after  undergoing  all  the  mental 
agonies  of  death,  when  the  cura  had  given  up 
all  hope,  Don  Juan,  who  had  been  two  hours  at 
liberty,  made  up  the  deficiency,  and  he  was  re- 
leased. 

The  next  morning,  Carrera  sent  to  Don  Juan 
to  borrow  his  shaving  apparatus,  and  Don  Juan 
took  them  over  himself.     He  had  always  been 


HIGH   STREET,   ANTIGUA 


Mirage  of  Quiche  51 

on  good  terms  with  Carrera,  and  the  latter  asked 
him  if  he  had  got  over  his  fright,  talking  with 
him  as  familiarly  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
Shortly  afterward  he  was  seen  at  the  window 
playing  on  a  guitar;  and  in  an  hour  thereafter, 
eighteen  members  of  the  municipality,  without 
the  slightest  form  of  trial,  not  even  a  drum-head 
court-martial,  were  taken  out  into  the  plaza  and 
shot.  They  were  all  the  very  first  men  in 
Quezaltenango;  and  Molina,  the  alcalde-mayor, 
in  family,  position,  and  character  was  second  to 
no  other  in  the  republic.  His  wife  was  clinging 
to  Carrera's  knees,  and  begging  for  his  life  when 
he  passed  with  a  file  of  soldiers.  She  screamed 
"Robertito";  he  looked  at  her,  but  did  not  speak. 
She  shrieked  and  fainted,  and  before  she  recov- 
ered her  husband  was  dead.  He  was  taken 
around  the  corner  of  the  house,  seated  on  a  stone, 
and  despatched  at  once.  The  others  were  seated 
in  the  same  place,  one  at  a  time;  the  stone  and 
the  wall  of  the  house  were  still  red  with  their 
blood.  I  was  told  that  Carrera  shed  tears  for 
the  death  of  the  first  two,  but  for  the  rest  he 
said  he  did  not  care." 

The  description  which  Stephens  elsewhere  gives 
agrees  well  enough  with  the  Quezaltenango  of 
to-day.  Yet  it  was  a  different  town  into  which 
he  rode.     For  in  1902,  to  the  perplexity  of  all 


52  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

observers,  every  living  thing  which  could  con- 
veniently run  or  fly  abandoned  the  nearby  slopes 
of  Santa  Maria,  the  extinct  volcano;  and  sud- 
denly, a  few  days  later,  the  cathedral  of  Quezal- 
tenango  was  standing  alone  above  the  ruins  of 
the  town,  Santa  Maria,  though  baptized  into 
the  church  with  every  ritual,  had  departed  from 
the  decorum  of  the  saints.  In  a  terrific  explo- 
sion she  had  blown  off  one  entire  slope  of  her 
peak,  and  amid  eruption  and  earthquake  Quezal- 
tenango  had  been  destroyed. 

Not  long  before  this  murderous  disaster  a  sci- 
entist of  distinction  had  pronounced  Santa  Maria 
dead.  But  he  might  better  have  said,  "Apar- 
taos,  que  lajoven  no  es  muerta;  sine  que  duernie." 
For  among  volcanoes  there  is  no  death,  but  only 
quiescence.  In  them  the  race  of  giants  is  not 
extinct.  They  are  the  true  owners  of  Guate- 
mala and  men  are  only  the  ephemeral  tenants 
of  their  treacherous  domain.  More  and  more  I 
grew  convinced  that  all  there  was  of  strange 
and  fascinating  and  distinctive  in  that  country  was 
ultimately  traceable  either  to  the  Indians  or  to 
the  volcanoes.  On  these  two  hangs  all  that  is 
picturesque  and  imaginative.  Artistically  they 
are  fundamentals,  the  one  giving  outline  and  the 
other  adding  color. 

In  one  sense  it  is  only  too  truthful  a  jest  to 


Mirage  of  Quiche  53 

say  that  the  Indians  add  color  to  Guatemala. 
But  I  intended  no  gametal  cynicism.  Their  bright 
dress,  their  bare  legs  and  arms,  their  packs  and 
wares  more  than  offset  the  second-hand  Ameri- 
canism which  is  creeping  over  the  country.  Ig- 
norant and  superstitious  and  lazy,  at  least  they 
are  still  themselves,  with  a  bird's  brightness  of 
plumage  to  hide  their  primeval  sadness. 

If  they  are  the  hues  of  the  landscape,  the  vol- 
canoes are  the  form. 

The  race  of  volcanoes  are  the  Greeks  of  the 
mountain-world,  even  as  the  Swiss  Alps  are  its 
romanticists.  Definite  and  logical,  instinct  with 
form,  full  of  concealed  energy,  dark-souled  withal 
and  drawn  to  imaginative  and  terrible  catastro- 
phes, they  combine  an  ordered  calm  of  appear- 
ance with  the  restlessness  of  an  unsuppressible 
interior  ferment.  Because  they  are  not,  like 
merely  pretty  things,  negligible  in  the  sphere  of 
our  action,  they  can  attain  to  true  beauty.  Tran- 
scending the  passivity  of  mere  outward  perfec- 
tion, they  are  more  than  the  insipid  beings  of  the 
classic  revivals:  they  are  true  Greeks.  And  like 
the  Greeks,  though  they  have  been  seemingly 
dead  two  thousand  years  or  more  we  yet  dare  not 
ignore  them  to-day. 

And  so  it  is  that  a  volcano  does  not  merely  add 
its  peak  to  a  landscape,  any  more  than  a  new 


54  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

outline  merely  adds  its  contour  to  a  drawing. 
For  the  entire  picture  is  so  affected  by  the  in- 
trusion that  the  whole  complex  of  emotions  is 
changed. 

Volcanoes,  I  am  convinced,  are  wonderful 
things  and  more  than  the  mere  vent-holes  of  a 
crass  subcutaneous  condition  in  the  terrestrial 
monster  upon  whom  we  lead  our  parasitic  lives. 
Among  their  distinctions  they  include  a  prop- 
erty which  I  had  imagined  to  be  peculiar  to  Look- 
ing-glass Land:  one  can  see  them  only  by  riding 
away  from  them.  If  one  rides  toward  them, 
little  by  little,  they  disappear;  and  if  one  still 
persists  so  far  as  to  try  to  ascend  them,  they 
vanish  altogether  and  leave  the  rider  amid  huge 
forests  on  steep  and  interminable  trails. 

Quezaltenango  is  far  enough  distant  from 
Santa  Maria  to  make  its  sharp  cone  visible;  but 
one  must  ride  some  fifteen  miles  further  away 
into  the  hills  around  the  town  of  St.  Francis  the 
High  before  its  perfect  and  beautiful  propor- 
tions rise  completely  into  view.  Best  of  all,  It 
should  be  seen  from  ship-board  on  the  Pacific. 
Then  the  broad  level  of  the  lowlands  gives  a 
ground-line  from  which  the  volcanoes  rise,  In  color 
a  pale  greyish  blue  like  smoke,  a  ragged  and 
mighty  line  facing  the  sea.  Tajumulco,  Santa 
Maria,  Atitlan,  Fire,  Water, — elsewhere  In  the 


Mirage  of  Quiche  55 

world  there  may  be  such  a  company,  but  I  do  not 
know  where  to  look  for  it.  Their  height  is  no 
arbitrary  mental  calculation  from  an  invisible 
level.  Twelve  and  thirteen  thousand  feet  they 
rise  before  the  eye.  Toward  noon  the  clouds 
cover  them  and  they  drift  off  into  the  thickening 
sky,  till  it  seems  impossible  that  those  sharp  cones 
and  perfect  lines  were  ever  there.  But  the  next 
morning,  pale  and  exquisitely  clear,  they  float 
agaij5st  the  sunrise  far  astern. 

But  I  was  writing  of  Quezaltenango  before  the 
typical  dullness  of  that  prosperous  little  place  in- 
duced me  to  turn  to  Santa  Maria  and  her  choleric 
tribe. 

:):  :):  ^  H:  >l<  ^  ^ 

North  of  the  town  there  is  much  dull  country, 
high  water-worn  table-land  covered  with  corn  and 
wheat  and  broken  by  bare  tracts  where  the  grass 
grows  in  tall  isolated  clumps.  There  one  rides 
for  hours  with  goal  in  sight  and  tires  of  every 
journey  before  it  is   ended. 

Ordinarily  the  roads  hereabouts  are  without 
life  or  interest;  but  on  market-days  they  are  trans- 
formed. St.  Francis  stands  on  a  high  bare  ridge 
with  the  whitewashed  cupola  of  its  church  visible 
across  the  countryside.  Friday  is  full  market. 
Up  the  steep  winding  pathways  to  the  town  the 
Indians  toll  In  the  sun,  driving  pigs  and  lambs. 


^6  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

the  women  with  live  turkey  and  other  fowl  slung 
on  their  back  or  with  baskets  on  their  heads,  the 
men  bent  beneath  their  canisters.  Even  the  small 
children  come  and  do  their  share  of  transporta- 
tion. Every  yard  of  the  square  in  front  of  the 
white  church  is  covered.  It  is  a  tattered  spec- 
tacle of  many  colors,  and  from  a  distance  resem- 
bles a  brilliant  rag-quilt.  And  that,  indeed,  it  is. 
The  great  tailor-made  Republic  north  of  Mexico 
little  knows  how  much  of  the  spirit  of  the  Levant 
lurks  on  its  own  progressive  and  western  conti- 
nent. The  line  where  the  scavenger-buzzards  be- 
gin marks  a  world  unknown  or  ignored. 

It  is  more  interesting  country  to  the  West 
toward  the  Mexican  frontier.  Two  hours  out 
from  Quezaltenango  the  hills  are  white  with  vol- 
canic sand  through  which  breaks  the  green  of 
the  maize.  Further  on,  russet  is  added  to  the 
green  and  the  white,  and  these  three  tones  every- 
where prevail.  There  is  similar  country  in  the 
Pyrenees  where,  too,  in  spite  of  the  arid  soil  and 
the  monotonous  landscape  the  bare  clear  hills  lit- 
tle by  little  press  their  inexplicable  fascination  till 
they  grow  to  be  part  of  one's  memory  and  expec- 
tation. 

These  are  fine  hills  for  idle  goers.  On  one  side 
of  the  ridge  the  view  drops  back  to  the  plain 
capped  by  the  perfect  cone  of  Santa  Maria.    Los- 


Mirage  of  Quiche  57 

ing  this  prospect  one  rides  through  the  great 
woodlands  of  the  mountain-crest  and  comes  out 
on  the  other  side  upon  another  world,  where  be- 
yond upland  meadows  rolls  a  lower  land,  wave 
after  wave,  to  the  smoky-blue  hills  of  the  Mexican 
border.  As  one  keeps  the  crest  these  two  views 
alternate.  It  is  a  solitary  ride,  quite  off  the  trav- 
elled track;  and  if  one  does  not  wish  to  sleep 
by  a  tethered  mule  under  a  raining  sky  it  is  well 
to  be  off  the  ridge  long  before  sundown.  Riding 
lazily  along,  with  my  eyes  out  over  forty  miles 
of  shower-streaked  summer  land,  I  came  to  a  kind 
of  moor,  treeless  and  wild,  with  high  clumps  of 
grass  on  every  side.  Ten  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea  can  almost  bring  Scotch  heather  under 
the  fifteenth  circle.  And  here  I  met  three  way- 
farers who  had  come  up  from  the  plains  with 
their  packs.  They  were  a  rascally  looking  crew 
(as  the  pirate-books  say)  and  when  they  saw  me 
riding  alone  on  the  blasted  heath  the  three  took 
a  position  on  either  side  of  the  path  and  waited 
for  me  to  come  up.  Withered  and  wild  as  was 
their  attire  they  turned  out  to  be  good-natured, 
simple-hearted  hill-people  who  owned  a  couple 
of  farms  on  the  slope  of  the  moor.  They  had 
been  to  town  fifteen  miles  away,  had  left  at  day- 
break and  were  only  just  returning;  and  what 
was  I  doing?  merely  looking?  not  selling  sewing- 


58  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

machines?  with  no  commission  at  all?  So  we 
talked  for  a  little  about  this  and  that,  and  said 
good-by.  And  such  in  general  are  the  people  of 
the  country,  simple  and  poor  and  kind.  The  soli- 
tary traveller  is  safer  in  this  "lawless"  land  than 
in  our  own  civilised  communities  of  the  North. 

Farther  to  the  West,  beyond  the  ridge  which  I 
have  been  describing,  lies  the  department  of  San 
Marcos,  more  orderly  and  prosperous  than  is  the 
Guatemalan  wont.  At  a  trifurcation  of  the  road 
stand  three  signs  which  amaze  one  not  a  little: 
"Short-cut  to  San  Marcos,"  pipes  the  little  cen- 
tral trail;  "Wagon-road  to  San  Marcos,"  an- 
nounces his  broader  neighbor  to  the  right;  "For 
Automobiles,"  booms  the  aristocrat  to  the  left. 
All  honour  to  the  far-sighted  Department  which 
can  look  forward  to  that  fusion  of  motor-car  and 
aeroplane  which  alone  will  ever  pass  that  way! 
Occasional  bridges  are  omitted  and  the  cross-cut 
sawings  of  the  mountain  torrents  are  ignored  with 
dignity;  but  what  does  it  matter?  The  road 
and  the  sign  are  there :  that  is  the  main  thing. 
And  no  automobile  has  come  to  grief, — there  are 
none  in  that  part  of  the  country. 

The  approach  to  the  town  lies  through  a 
straight  dark  avenue  of  firs  at  the  end  of  which 
a  gentleman-warrior  (to  me  unknown)  leans  peril- 


Mirage  of  Quiche  59 

ously  out  from  his  pedestal.  Four  cabalistic 
carven  dates  serve  to  endear  him  to  his  country's 
memory.  The  town  itself  lies  in  pleasant  fields 
surrounded  by  hills.  On  a  high  bastion  in  the 
centre  a  paved  platform  looks  out  over  the  house- 
tops. At  its  back  stands  an  armoury,  a  real 
armoury,  with  look-out  towers  and  swallow-tail 
battlements.  This  gives  a  military  tone  to  the 
town.  One  feels  that  it  is  indeed  only  twenty- 
five  miles  to  the  frontier,  that  the  bayonet  and 
rifle  rule  on  the  Guatemalan  border,  that  beyond 
those  hills  lies  the  lawless  land.  Besides,  San 
Marcos  thinks  and  speaks  freely, — as  the  gov- 
ernment would  say,  seditiously;  and  the  sight  of 
soldiery  is  always  a  good  deterrent  on  a  too- 
progressive  department  of  a  Central  American 
republic.  The  townspeople  seem  active  and  ef- 
ficient. Was  it  imagination,  or  were  they  also 
correspondingly  less  open  and  less  courteous? 
After  all,  is  it  only  the  good-for-nothings  in  this 
world  that  are  thoroughly  lovable,  only  the  shift- 
less who  are  good-natured,  the  incapable  who 
have  a  soul  and  the  brainless  who  have  a  heart? 
I  hope  not.  Yet  there  are  times  in  the  tropics 
when  the  shadow  of  doubt  runs  over  all  that  en- 
ergetic Northern  civilisation,  of  whose  claims  to 
supremacy  not  all  of  us  are  always  so  eloquent 
or  so  convinced. 


6o  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

At  the  hotel  I  came  upon  a  courtyard  full  of 
gayety.  The  inn-keeper's  little  daughter  was 
holding  a  birthday  party  and  the  space  was 
crowded  with  children.  Music  was  freely  dis- 
pensed by  a  marimba,  native  glorification  of  the 
xylophone.  The  physics  of  this  instrument  are 
not  uninteresting.  Under  each  key  of  the  wooden 
keyboard  hangs  a  hollow  tube  of  appropriate 
length,  whose  column  of  air  vibrates  to  the  note. 
This  gives  a  resonant  background  and  adds 
greatly  to  the  timbre.  A  mere  xylophone  has 
something  of  the  dryness  of  footsteps  on  a  frosty 
morning  or  the  shallow  brilliance  of  an  Oxford 
exhibitioner;  and  this  defect  the  marimba  over- 
comes. But  as  it  also  assumes  the  quality  of  a 
piano  played  with  damper  raised,  it  is  confusing 
rather  than  clear  and  carries  with  it  some  of  the 
excitement  of  shouting  or  of  moving  crowds. 
Consequently  it  is  at  its  best  while  playing  mar- 
tial or  stirring  tunes  in  the  open  air,  when,  if 
cunningly  belabored,   it  becomes   really   rousing. 

The  children  danced  in  and  out  under  the  dry- 
ing garments  of  the  week's  wash.  Yet  it  seemed 
as  if  even  the  frankness  of  these  surroundings 
did  not  put  them  at  ease.  They  were  stiff  and 
formal  toward  each  other,  in  that  delightful  and 
unnecessary  way  which  children  adopt  at  their 
own  parties  until  the  rough-and-tumble  of  some 


ROAD    AND    RUIN,    ANTIGUA 


Mirage  of  Quiche  61 

game  makes  them  forget  the  starch  and  creases. 

But  there  were  no  games  on  that  occasion.  The 
little  boys  struggled  with  the  dance-steps  and 
their  best  shoes,  while  the  little  girls  displayed 
their  conviction  of  an  innate  grace.  Yet  conscious 
aptitude  and  awkwardness  ended  at  last.  In  the 
sight  of  all,  a  bright-coloured  plaster  bomb  was 
knocked  down  from  its  swinging  perch  below  the 
rafters,  combining  in  its  subsequent  behaviour  the 
good  tradition  of  Humpty-Dumpty  with  the  less 
pleasant  one  of  shrapnel.  There  was  a  rush  for 
the  burst  of  little  presents,  and  homo  naturMis 
resumed  his  rule. 

I  judged  that  the  marimberos  were  hired  by 
the  day;  for  the  departure  of  the  children  af- 
fected them  not  at  all.  Their  repertoire  com- 
bined the  American  musical  comedy  with  South 
American  tunes.  Of  native  melodies  there  were 
none;  but  I  could  not  discover  whether  the  omis- 
sion implied  a  non-existence  or  merely  well-bred 
suppression.  There  is  said  to  be  much  native 
Mexican  music,  and  the  enthusiasm  for  the  ma' 
rimba  seems  to  imply  an  indigenous  Interest.  But 
it  was  with  "O  la  bella  liina''  and  with  the  Dollar- 
Princess  that  I  had  to  satisfy  my  taste  for  the 
exotic. 

He  3|!  5lS  :^  5|C  5|!  * 

I  went  no  further  toward  Mexico,  but  turned 


62  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

northward  from  San  Marcos,  and  at  length  east- 
ward, until  I  was  riding  back  on  a  parallel  course, 
with  incidental  amusement  and  discomfort 
enough,  but  little  to  chronicle  until  I  came  to 
Santa  Cruz  Quiche  and  the  broad  green  valley 
wherefrom  the  two  great  rivers  of  Guatemala 
rise. 

It  is  an  amusing  plain  through  which  to  ride; 
for  though  it  seems  perfectly  level,  it  cannot  be 
traversed  in  a  straight  line  from  any  direction. 
The  roads  and  paths  twist  about  sudden  ravines 
and  vast  earth-crevasses,  crossing  on  narrow 
tongues  between  five-hundred  foot  abysses,  or 
plunge  deep  down  into  shadowy  hollows  wherein 
grow  great  trees  whose  peaks  never  reach  the 
level  plain.  These  barrancas  are,  next  to  the  vol- 
canoes, the  most  distinctive  element  of  Guate- 
malan scenery.  Occasionally  they  afford  spectacu- 
lar views,  as  when  the  road  suddenly  emerges  on 
the  brink  of  some  great  valley  with  steep  un- 
cloven  sides  in  whose  deep  bed  winds  a  stream. 
Ride  half  a  mile  further  and  you  will  look  back 
over  a  level  plain,  unable  to  believe  in  the  ex- 
istence of  what  your  own  eyes  saw  so  recently. 
Below  Santo  Tomas,  for  example,  there  is  such 
a  view.  I  came  upon  it  unexpectedly  at  sunset 
after  rain,  and  though  I  cannot  describe  it,  neither 
can  I  forget  it. 


Mirage  of  Quiche  63 

But  my  chronicle  begins  a  few  miles  further 
West,  at  Santa  Cruz  Quiche,  to  which  I  woke  on 
a  sunny  Sunday  morning.  It  was  fiesta  and 
rockets  were  wasting  themselves  In  the  full  glare 
of  day,  while  a  turkey  In  the  courtyard  was  greet- 
ing every  explosion  with  a  gobble  of  enthusiasm 
so  accurately  timed  that  It  must  have  been  that 
pitiless  recurrence  of  "zzzz  .  .  .  bang  .  .  .  gob- 
ble" which  awakened  me.  I  looked  out  over  the 
littered  court  below.  At  one  loud  explosion  a 
flock  of  birds  wheeled  by  In  terror  and  I  thought 
of  the  piazza  of  St.  Mark's  In  Venice  and  the 
pigeons  flying  up  at  the  sound  of  the  sunset  can- 
non. A  sudden  ennui  came  over  me,  a  disgust  of 
the  dirty  unlettered  towns  and  of  the  whole  fer- 
tile and  futile,  beautiful  and  barbarian  land  to 
which  I  had  exiled  myself  for  a  summer's  caprice. 
One  has  such  feelings  on  waking  In  an  unknown 
Indian  village  with  the  memory  of  a  long  day's 
ride  still  in  one's  arms  and  legs.  The  emotion 
wears  away  almost  as  quickly  as  the  physical  fa- 
tigue; but  It  Is  well  to  recall  Its  poignancy  in  after- 
days  when  one  looks  back  with  self-deceiving 
regret  to  the  joys  of  solitary  muleback  in  New 
Spain. 

I  was  intent  on  seeing  the  ruins.  Near  Santa 
Cruz  once  stood  the  capital  of  the  Indians  in  the 
days  of  the  Spanish  conqulstadores  and  some  of 


64  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

the  walls  of  their  ancient  town  still  stand  with 
broken  towers  visible  afar.  With  a  small  boy 
of  ten  years  for  my  guide,  I  started  out  on  foot 
and  came  in  twenty  minutes  to  rubble  walls,  drear 
but  real  remnants  of  Indian  work. 

Thanks  to  those  curious  earth-crevasses  of 
which  I  have  spoken,  the  town  had  been  defended 
by  natural  moats  hundreds  of  feet  deep,  upon 
whose  inner  lip  rose  the  fortification  walls.  The 
general  workmanship  was  rather  poor.  Though 
some  of  the  stones  had  been  hewn,  the  technique 
was  after  all  only  a  mud-concrete,  quite  unlike  the 
marvellously  jointed  Inca  masonry  of  Peru.  At 
one  point  were  traces  of  a  gateway  and  remnants 
of  a  tower,  still  some  twenty-five  feet  in  height, 
roughly  square,  with  a  slight  batter.  Half-way 
up,  it  had  a  guard-room,  as  though  hollowed  out, 
with  traces  of  the  incline  of  the  stairway  which 
led  up  to  it. 

The  site  is  strewn  with  fragments  of  coarsely 
glazed  red  earthen-ware  of  rather  uniform  clay, 
showing  traces  of  the  potter's  wheel.  I  picked  up 
quantities  of  obsidian  splinters,  black  volcanic 
glass,  the  tools  of  this  early  folk.  I  found  also 
a  little  head  of  terracotta,  slightly  rough,  but  full 
of  traces  of  a  finer  touch  than  one  would  have 
expected. 

In  the  side  of  the  steep  slope  of  one  of  the 


Miracfe  of  Quiche  6$ 

guarding  ravines  there  is  a  gallery  hewn,  in  the 
soft  rock, — a  passage  some  twelve  feet  high  and 
some  hundred  yards  long  with  small  chambers 
opening  off  on  either  side.  One  of  these  rooms 
ends  In  a  sudden  pit,  a  black  vertical  shaft  lead- 
ing (the  natives  told  me)  to  a  lower  floor  with 
many  rooms.  All  are  empty;  and  the  walls  are 
without  trace  of  ornament.  They  seem  to  have 
served  as  store-rooms  rather  than  burial  vaults. 
Poking  and  peering  about  by  candle-light  deep 
In  the  hillside,  I  felt  some  of  that  sense  of  slip- 
ping out  of  place  in  the  centuries  which  I  take 
to  be  the  emotional  element  of  a  first  visit  to  the 
Palaeolithic  caverns  of  Spain  and  the  Dordogne. 
But  here  there  was  drawn  neither  bison  nor  elk. 
There  was  only  the  bare  testimony  of  the  dark 
and  empty  passages. 

Gazing  from  these  feeble  remnants  of  power 
out  over  the  most  beautiful  plain  in  the  coun- 
try, I  could  not  realize  that  this  was  the  Utatlan 
of  which  I  had  read,  that  here  had  been  human 
sacrifice  to  Indian  gods,  that  here  had  come  Al- 
varado  with  his  Spaniards  and  broken  the  last 
resistance  of  a  mighty  people.  Guarded  by  the 
great  ravines  here  had  been  palaces  of  the  kings 
of  Quiche  with  courts  and  towers  and  decorated 
walls,  altars  and  Idols,  chieftains  and  warriors. 
Only  a  hundred  years  ago   (If  we  are  to  trust 


66  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

Stephens'  Informants)  the  palace  with  its  garden 
was  still  to  be  seen.  Thirty  years  later  Stephens 
himself  saw  the  ruins  of  the  altar  of  sacrifice  but 
otherwise  little  more  than  I.  In  that  short  in- 
terval had  come  the  suspicion  of  hidden  treasure 
and  the  destruction  of  the  buildings  that  Alvarado 
had  spared.  Ichabod,  indeed!  It  all  exists  only 
in  printed  books  and  old  handwritings  (although 
it  may  be  that  it  never  existed  elsewhere  in  quite 
the  sumptuous  glory  of  the  chroniclers).  Cer- 
tainly it  lives  no  longer  on  the  green  plain  of 
Santa  Cruz,  though  the  corn  still  springs,  no 
doubt,  from  the  moulderings  of  Indians  and  Span- 
iards slain  in  battle. 

"Well,"  said  the  friendly  Inn-keeper  on  my  re- 
turn to  the  modern  town  a  mile  away,  "and  how 
were  the  ruins?  For  my  own  part,  I  have  never 
troubled  to  go  to  look  at  them."  Yet  he  had 
lived  there  all  his  life. 

I  found  Santa  Cruz  a  little  less  unendurable 
than  I  had  expected.  Its  town-square  has  un- 
usual distinction.  At  dusk,  especially,  it  has  the 
charm  which  often  comes  with  the  not  too  clearly 
seen.  Then  there  stand  against  the  sky  three 
tall  forms  whose  mutual  contrast  is  like  the  con- 
trast of  different  races.  There  is  the  tower  of  the 
garrison,  in  three  receding  stories,  well-poised  and 
graceful,  a  memory  of  Spain.     Then  there  is  the 


Mirage  of  Quiche  67 

fagade  of  the  church,  stiffly  vertical,  a  mask  and 
a  sham,  like  the  false  front  of  an  early  Tuscan 
church.  Between  the  two  is  the  blown  bubble  of 
the  cupola  above  the  transept,  a  thing  of  curving 
outline  and  balanced  thrusts  and  strains,  crying 
attention  to  a  mechanical  function  well  performed. 
These  are  the  three  against  the  sky.  But  Santa 
Cruz  has  no  idea  what  they  all  mean. 

I  rode  in  the  late  afternoon  to  Santo  Tomas, — 
whose  simple  and  pious  name  appeals  to  the  na- 
tives less  than  their  own  long-drawn  and  sibilant 
Chichicastenango.  It  stands  on  a  hill  rather 
prettily;  but  further  than  that  I  know  little  about 
it.  For  I  left  at  dawn  and  rode  through  wild 
country,  up  and  down  by  ridge  and  gorge,  grad- 
ually mounting  through  ragged  hillsides  to  high 
unwooded  slopes  with  ever-widening  views  of  the 
plain  of  Quiche,  the  valley  of  the  River  Mo- 
tagua,  and  the  blue  barrier  mountains  which 
guard  the  low,  wet,  and  wild  jungles  of  Peten. 
I  met  no  one  and  passed  no  houses  for  many 
miles.  But  the  world  grew  broader  and  broader 
till  it  came  to  be  a  vast  spectacle  of  trembling 
light  whose  distances  were  as  blue  as  the  back- 
ground hills  of  the  Venetian  painters.  The  path 
was  hot  and  stony,  up  and  up  without  pity.  Near 
the  ridge  came  a  last  open  view  as  wonderful 


68  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

m  width  and  power  as  anything  in  all  the  coun- 
try; and  then  the  road  took  to  the  great,  cool 
forest,  and  the  light  of  the  far  blue  hills  and 
lowlands  was  suddenly  shut  out,  to  reappear  no 
more.  At  the  damp  watershed  I  crossed  a  waving 
meadow  of  thistles  and  forget-me-nots, — fit  sym- 
bol of  the  mixed  feelings  of  the  traveller  who 
has  climbed  those  arid  hills  for  hours  without 
food  or  friend,  yet  has  been  rewarded  by  the 
ever-memorable  blue  of  those  clear  fifty-mile  ex- 
panses. 

A  long  winding  descent  on  the  other  side  led 
down  into  the  high  cornland  from  which  my  jour- 
ney had  commenced  nearly  a  month  ago.  I  had 
been  to  Mexico  and  back,  with  interest  but  with- 
out adventure,  keeping  always  to  the  ridge  of  the 
continent  and  the  cool  open  uplands.  And  now 
I  was  riding  in  the  last  of  Los  Altos,  heading 
eastward  for  Guatemala  City  and  the  slow  de- 
scent to  warmer  lands. 

Having  ridden  all  day  without  food,  I  was 
both  tired  and  hungry  when  I  reached  Tecpan. 
But  I  postponed  dinner  and  sleep  to  watch  the 
natives  with  lighted  candles  escort  Christ  to  the 
village  church.  Dressed  in  a  cheap  imitation  of 
purple  brocade,  his  face  tear-stained  and  pitiable, 
he  had  stumbled  to  his  knees  beneath  his  cross. 
He  was  borne  on  a  platform  upon  the  shoulders 


Mirage  of  Quiche  69 

of  four  men  while  a  few  brass  horns  improvised 
a  sort  of  Ases  Tod.  Before  him  two  tall  battered 
candlesticks  from  the  altar  had  joined  the  proces- 
sion. Behind  came  the  Indians  and  the  lighted 
candles, — large  candles,  small  candles,  fat  ones 
and  lean  ones,  twisted  ones,  colored  ones,  all  with 
their  gob  of  fire.  The  little  girls  were  enjoying 
the  excitement  of  keeping  the  thin  flames  ahght, 
and  whispered  and  pushed  and  giggled.  The 
women  were  clearly  devotional,  the  men  ceremoni- 
ous. The  sun  was  down,  and  this  barbarian  cor- 
tege moving  through  the  gathering  nightfall 
seemed  like  the  funeral  of  some  Cachiquel  hero. 
Indeed,  I  asked  a  man  with  a  wart  on  his  face 
what  festival  this  was  and  whether  some  one  was 
dead.  "It  is  Christ,"  said  he,  "coming  from  the 
house  where  he  lives."  That  is  all  I  learned. 
Candles  and  music  passed  down  the  street  and 
I  went  in  to  dinner. 

Below  Tecpan  there  is  a  rocky  hole  low  down 
in  the  green  bank  and  through  it  the  traveller 
sees  trees  growing  and  the  light  shining,  as  though 
within  that  hill  were  a  garden  of  the  good  people. 
It  is  a  queer  and  unexplained  glimpse  and  I  was 
careful  to  leave  it  so,  lest  that  fragile  faith  in 
the  folk  of  the  hollow  hills  should  be  crushed 
once  more  when  the  miracle  was  understood. 


70  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

My  experience  at  Santa  Cruz  made  me  unam- 
bitious to  search  out  the  stones  of  the  old  Indian 
stronghold  of  Tecpan-Quautamala.  I  cared 
more  for  the  clear  stream  and  green  grass  and 
English  shadows  below  the  town,  things  neither 
primitive  nor  intangible.  Any  one  with  half  a 
soul  in  his  body  will  do  the  same  in  Guatemala 
or  in  Turkey  or  any  ancient  land,  and  turn  from 
the  five  graceless  stones  of  an  ancient  town, 
thankful  that  the  sky  does  not  crumble  nor  the 
landscape  pass  away. 

This  is  the  cornfield  of  the  gods,  comparable 
to  the  Lombardy  plain  whose  vast  stalks  of  maize, 
rioting  in  the  heat,  so  strongly  affect  the  traveller 
come  down  from  the  cold  and  rainy  Tyrol.  But 
here  the  aloes  line  the  lanes  and  down  in  the 
barrancas  unfamihar  shadow  falls  close  from  the 
tropical  trees.  It  is  a  world  of  its  own,  good  to 
ride  in,  growing  gradually  beloved  as  its  first 
strangeness  and  hostile  formlessness  wear  away. 
The  villages  are  hidden  in  the  fields.  Five  min- 
utes' riding  leaves  them  behind,  with  only  the 
white  dome  of  the  church  looking  out  across  the 
level  corn. 

The  volcanoes  re-appeared,  first  Fire  and  then 
Water.  Three  miles  to  the  south  of  me  was 
Patzizia,  the  rainy  village  from  which  I  began 
my  book.    At  Zaragoza  I  was  in  the  highroad  to 


Mirage  of  Quiche  71 

the  capital,  among  mules  and  horses  and  ox-carts. 
At  Chlmaltenango  my  senses,  trained  to  loneli- 
ness, resented  the  advanced  civilisation  which  a 
month  ago  I  could  not  even  discern.  Guatemala 
City  would  only  depress  me  with  its  reckless  mo- 
dernity. So  I  turned  aside  and  rode  down  into  the 
basin  between  the  volcanoes,  down  into  the  black- 
green  of  coffee-farms  where  the  hillsides  were 
like  thunder-clouds  of  outward-bellying  trees  and 
the  road  was  dark  with  bamboo  and  fern  and 
palm.  And  so  through  delightful  shadow  of 
greenery  I  came  to  the  one  town  of  real  interest 
in  the  land,  the  oldest  in  Central  America,  An- 
tigua, City  of  St.  James  of  Gentlemen. 


CHAPTER    III 

ANTIGUA 

Picture  a  round  green  valley,  a  bowl  whose 
ragged  edge  is  an  encircling  line  of  wooded  ridges 
and  sharp  volcanic  peaks.  Below  a  sky  bluer 
than  that  of  Sicily  the  woods  begin,  compact  and 
billowy  as  summer  thunder-caps.  Below  these  are 
dark  stretches  of  coffee-plants,  and  down  in  the 
bottom  of  the  bowl  is  a  checker  of  red  roofs  and 
white  domes.     That  is  Antigua. 

Suspicion  might  well  attach  to  any  vista  which 
claims  to  be  more  lovely  than  a  glimpse  into  this 
cup  of  green.  Its  nearest  rival,  Florence  from 
Fiesole,  cannot  match  it  for  mere  beauty.  The 
elements,  indeed,  are  much  the  same:  red-tiled 
roofs  of  a  town  below,  a  valley-basin,  and  enclos- 
ing hills.  But  Italy  can  never  wholly  conceal  nor 
reconcile  its  soil's  decrepitude.  Its  landscapes 
have  an  arid  hint  of  three  thousand  years  of 
peasant  farming.  That  is  part  of  its  charm,  no 
doubt;  but  the  charm  of  the  New-World's  fresh 
fertility  is  truer  to  our  instinctive  preference  of 
hve  things  to  dead. 

72 


Antigua  73 

Yet  Florence  is  unrivalled,  because  we  see  it 
with  our  minds  and  memories.  Just  so,  few  peo- 
ple of  intellectual  integrity  would  exchange  the 
Alban  hills  for  my  great  volcanoes  or  an  acre 
of  the  Campagna  for  all  the  coffee-plantations  of 
Guatemala.  But  Antigua,  alone  in  Central  Amer- 
ica, has  this  same  mirage  of  the  past  upon  it 
to  make  enchantment  out  of  dirty  streets  and 
crumbling  stones.  For  Brunelleschi's  dome  there 
are  only  the  white  cupolas  of  the  Spanish  churches, 
yet  these  are  leaven  of  art  enough  to  make  the 
bread  of  life. 

I  have  ventured  the  comparison  with  Florence. 
Yet  what  have  I  to  offer  to  match  an  hour's  walk 
on  the  Lung'  Arno  past  the  bridges  and  back  by 
the  Palazzo  Vecchio  and  the  Mercato  with  Or 
San  Michele?  Not  much,  I  fear.  In  Antigua 
one  loves  little  things.  It  is  enough  to  stare  at 
a  house-corner  with  a  queer  window-seat,  or  to 
mark  a  cactus'  ear  springing  from  the  joint  of  a 
roof,  most  fantastic  of  finials.  And  after  all,  is 
not  this  the  spirit  of  those  who  really  love  Flor- 
ence— to  look  for  the  casual,  which  is  the  true 
artistic?  And  would  not  a  rambling  painter  bless 
the  fertility  which  turns  roof-tiles  into  the  green 
of  moss  and  the  golden-yellow  and  yellow-green 
of  mouldy  growths,  in  a  wealth  and  play  of  colour 
that  even  Italy  cannot  show?     Yet  in  spite  of 


74  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

the  warning,  my  hour's  walk  may  seem  so  very 
trivial!  .  .  . 

Here  is  an  open  shop.  A  Spanish  girl  has 
brought  her  poodle  to  be  sheared.  She  has 
stretched  the  little  animal  out  on  the  counter; 
the  scissors  are  already  at  work  on  his  woolly 
overcoat.  From  the  main  square  a  drum  snares 
and  two  ambitious  buglers  plunge  through  an  ill- 
advised  call.  It  is  the  stroke  of  the  hour.  A 
school  is  reciting  in  unison  at  the  top  of  unmellow 
childish  voices  some  lesson  of  the  day. 

Occasional  dark  shadows  cross  the  white  and 
dusty  street.  Look  up  and  you  will  see  dark  birds 
on  the  bright  blue  sky,  graded  from  the  sharp 
large  wings  of  the  lower  levels  to  small  blotches 
a  mile  in  air.  These  are  the  scavengers,  the 
pest-averters,  cleaners  of  street  and  court.  These 
are  the  buzzards.  They  sit  on  the  roofs,  their 
ugly  grey-cowled  faces  thrust  forward,  their  necks 
bent.  They  stalk  in  the  streets,  sombre  and 
evil.  In  the  clean  sky  they  bring  the  pollution 
of  their  carrion-fed  bodies.  A  malign  benevo- 
lence, they  ward  over  the  tropic  lands.  One  sees 
their  circling  company  high  in  air,  while  the  foot- 
hills still  hide  the  villages  from  view.  A  map 
of  the  sky  above  Central  America  with  only  the 
buzzards  indicated  would  perform  every  service 
of  a  gazetteer. 


Antigua  75 

Above  the  one-story  houses  the  old  churches 
seem  like  giants  of  ancient  days;  for  ruin  and 
desolation  add  to  their  apparent  size.  Here,  too, 
the  buzzards  perch  on  the  broken  walls.  Inside, 
the  floors  are  lost  in  vegetation.  You  may  see 
the  rents  which  the  earthquakes  made  through 
masonry  so  many  feet  thick  that  it  leaves  only  the 
more  apparent  the  vanity  of  the  builders.  The 
facades  have  still  their  saints  In  the  niches.  In 
the  side  walls  great  octagonal  ports  with  double 
splay  still  mark  the  windows.  Here  and  there, 
the  springings  of  the  vaults,  the  arches  of  the 
doors  are  standing. 

A  blind  beggar  with  his  dog  is  going  his  well- 
planned  round.  .  .  .  Over  the  portal  of  the 
courtyard  of  the  church  of  San  Buenaventura 
stands  the  little  saint  in  person,  dressed  in  pretty 
blue,  with  a  broad-brimmed  black  hat  and  a  staff. 
His  tilted  face  has  a  melancholy  and  pathetic 
air,  in  contrast  to  his  spruce  and  bright  attire. 
.  .  .  An  Indian  girl  passes,  carrying  vases  of  bril- 
liant flowers  for  the  church. 

Everywhere  along  the  street  there  are  glimpses 
through  open  doorways  into  gardens  and  court- 
yards. How  fine  to  have  a  sixty-foot  tree  in  one's 
house !  .  .  .  On  a  roof  there  is  growing  a 
prickly-pear,  like  the  hairy  green  ears  of  some 


76  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

strange  elephantine  animal  who  lives  in  the  house 
beneath. 

Inside  the  cathedral  the  shrines  are  loaded 
with  dolls  in  brilliant  frocks.  These  wax-figures 
in  muslin  clothes  with  sweeping  wings  of  tin  are 
the  queen  of  heaven  and  the  angelic  company 
for  whom  the  candles  are  lighted  and  the  rockets 
make  their  noise,  for  whom  the  bells  clatter  and 
a  shrewd  church  holds  its  ceremony  of  tinsel  and 
vestments  and  incense. 

Then  there  are  the  Indian  women  washing  in 
line  along  the  street,  each  before  a  stone  basin 
which  she  fills  with  water  from  a  central  pool. 

Last  of  all,  there  is  the  ruined  church  which 
serves  for  Indian  market.  That  is  a  charmed 
haunt,  always  with  much  to  sell  and  much  to  see. 
May  the  God  of  the  North  help  the  temperate 
stomach  which  ever  encounters  the  food  that  one 
here  sees  mashed  and  stirred  and  brewed!  The 
mere  look  of  some  of  it  can  make  one  ill.  But 
the  rest  is  all  brilliant  colour  of  clothes  against 
the  dark  skins  of  the  women,  of  baskets  of  fruit 
against  the  mouldy  walls,  and  of  an  open  blue 
sky  over  all. 

And  that,  briefly,  is  an  hour's  walk  in  Antigua. 

In  these  lands  the  houses  are  built  with  large 
bricks  of  sun-dried  mud.     These,  if  they  stood 


Antigua  77 

alone  and  exposed  to  the  weather,  the  rains  would 
soon  disintegrate;  but  thickly  plastered  with 
stucco,  they  seem  to  wear  as  well  in  that  climate 
as  our  more  costly  structures  in  colder  lands. 

It  would  be  easy  to  paint  a  picture  of  an  An- 
tiguan  street.  A  child's  box  of  colours  has  every- 
thing needful.  The  first  house  is  to  be  light  ver- 
milion, the  next  blue,  the  next  yellow,  the  next 
lilac,  all  in  clear  bright  colours  set  side  by  side 
without  transition.  The  effect  is  naive  and  sim- 
ple-souled.  It  brings  with  it  a  child's  gayety.  It 
has  the  spirit  of  a  Noah's-Ark,  a  toy-town  shin- 
ing in  the  sun. 

The  houses  are  all  of  a  single  story  with  over- 
hanging eaves  set  at  slightly  different  levels. 
Looking  down  the  vista  of  houses,  one  has  the 
illusion  that  one  could  ride  along  the  sidewalk 
and  touch  the  eaves  with  uplifted  hand.  In  real- 
ity the  windows  and  ceilings  are  very  high,  mak- 
ing the  rooms  airy  and  cool.  The  house-fronts 
are  necessarily  long;  for  the  people  live  in  ex- 
tenso,  since  they  may  not  live  in  alto.  Though 
the  volcanoes  are  almost  wholly  extinct,  earth- 
quakes are  perennial,  as  the  story  of  the  town 
will  witness;  and  for  that  reason  the  two  safe 
dimensions  in  domestic  architecture  have  to  make 
up  for  the  perilous  third.  The  fronts  are  plain, 
a  flat  expanse  of  uniform  colour  broken  only  by 


78  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

large  window-grills  that  project  out  into  the  side- 
walk. An  Antiguan  window  is  not,  as  with  us, 
a  mere  glazed  hole  in  the  wall;  for  between  the 
iron  bars  of  the  outer  grill  and  the  glass  of  the 
casement  there  is  a  little  territory,  in  the  street 
but  not  of  it,  a  little  balcony  where  one  may  lean 
one's  arms  and  gaze  up-village  and  down.  Here 
the  women  put  the  little  children  and  close  the 
window  behind  them.  Out-of-door  prisoners,  they 
watch  securely  the  grown-up  world  through  the 
gratings  of  their  little  cell.  These  self-same 
windows  have  also  another  common  use,  though 
I  should  suppose  a  certain  tantalization  to  be  at- 
tendant upon  the  ceremony.  As  the  Spanish  catch 
goes. 

And  perilous  spots  are  the  window-places 

For  mothers  whose  daughters  have  pretty  faces! 

The  streets  are  all  alike,  save  where  around 
the  central  square  the  blank  walls  give  way  to 
open  shops.  Such  is  Antigua  from  without.  But 
nearly  every  one  of  all  those  unattractive  fronts 
hides  a  courtyard  full  of  flowers  and  shrubs  and 
running  water,  and  no  passer-by  can  tell  how  much 
or  how  little  luxury  and  comfort  the  tinted  plaster 
conceals. 

It  is  a  tropical  Instinct  to  ignore  street-fronts 


Antigua  79 

and  to  live  about  an  Internal  court.  Where  our 
northern  windowed  houses  gape  like  sponges  or 
honey-combs  upon  the  street,  the  ancient  Greek 
and  Roman  and  the  modern  Levantine  and  Span- 
ish dwellings  turn  blank  faces  to  the  passer-by  and 
live  secluded  about  their  hidden  yard,  whose  tem- 
pered sunlight  and  flowers  and  caged  birds  are  a 
refuge  from  the  barren  and  dusty  world  without. 
I  think  that  the  honest  visitor  to  Pompeii 
might  well  allow  that  the  sight  of  the  ancient 
houses,  even  where  the  peristyles  have  been  re- 
built and  replanted,  has  never  brought  that  feel- 
ing of  comfort  which  emanates  from  the  really 
liveable  and  homelike.  In  the  grey  desolation 
of  that  terrible  skeleton  of  an  ancient  town,  the 
classic  mirage  makes  Hfe  distant  and  chilly  and 
Latin.  But  In  Antigua  the  Pompeian  house  lives 
again,  to  take  us  back  to  the  year  70  without  the 
qualms  of  erudition  and  to  make  a  real  and  pres- 
ent pleasure  out  of  the  dreary  ruined  matter  of 
our  Italian  memories.  The  delight  of  houses  lies 
always  in  the  discovery  of  their  fitness  to  be  lived 
in;  and  here  in  Antigua  life  Is  unusually  lovely 
with  its  dreamy  fusion  of  out-of-doors  and  in. 
The  open  court  is  a  garden  of  colour  and  per- 
fume. Plants  hang  in  swinging  pots  and  birds 
sing  in  wooden  cages.  Sitting  beneath  the  red 
slope  of  the  roof  that  runs  around  this  Inner  para- 


8o  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

dise,  one  sees  the  familiar  cone  of  Agua  standing 
over  the  town  as  Vesuvius  stands  above  Pompeii. 
The  comparison  is  only  too  fitting.  Fertile  and 
undreaded,  both  have  destroyed  those  who  trusted 
to  their  deceptive  protection  and  lived  so  serenely 
at  their  feet. 

:(:  3^  :(:  H^  H:  4:  ^ 

The  Antiguan  churches  are  built  of  brick  laid 
in  thick  mortar  to  form  a  concrete  mass.  Walls, 
arches,  vaults,  and  domes  are  all  so  constructed, 
and  all  are  remarkable  for  their  solidity.  This 
gigantic  Roman  technique  is  enlivened  in  true  an- 
cient Roman  manner  by  a  facing  of  decorated 
stucco,  behind  which  the  true  structure  vanishes, 
while  a  more  or  less  plausible  system  of  "Greek" 
columns  and  entablatures  makes  feeble  pretence 
of  responsibility. 

Where  the  buildings  lie  in  ruins,  one  can  but 
admire  the  tenacity  of  this  concrete.  Fallen 
vaults  lie  in  gigantic  masses.  Instead  of  crumbled 
mortar  and  scattered  brick,  huge  striped  boulders 
block  the  way.  The  Spaniards  built  against 
earthquake;  and  though  they  failed,  they  proved 
themselves  great  builders,  followers  in  the  struc- 
tural traditions  of  imperial  Rome. 

Their  ornamentation  was  of  another  sort. 
Heirs  to  the  undiscriminating  decadence  of  the 
last  of  the   Renaissance,  they  played  the  usual 


Antigua  8 1 

havoc  with  their  inheritance.  They  wound  stucco 
spirals  around  the  simple  uprightness  of  the 
classic  column.  They  finished  the  facades  with 
ungainly  volutes.  They  broke  the  wall-spaces  with 
unnecessary  niches  in  which  they  put  bishops  and 
angels  and  saints.  And  finally  they  attacked  span- 
drels and  lunettes  with  moulded  and  painted  ara- 
besques. One  can  hardly  imagine  to  what  height 
of  revelry  this  mania  for  stucco  twinery  could 
lead,  until  he  has  seen  these  ruins.  On  one  f  agade 
which  I  well  remember,  column-bases,  shafts,  and 
capitals  were  overlaced  with  leaf-patterns;  the 
entablature  was  a  succession  of  braid  and  vine  and 
scroll;  the  wall-niches  were  covered  and  crowned 
with  intricate  designs;  and  not  an  inch  of  wall- 
space  was  left  without  ornament.  The  Gothic 
outline  that  topped  the  doorway  made  spandrel- 
room  for  bewigged  and  wild-eyed  angels  amid 
a  truly  tropical  luxuriance  of  auxiliary  fillings. 
The  result  is  marvellous  in  its  richness  and  gor- 
geous at  a  distance,  but  disappointing  on  closer 
scrutiny.  In  any  case,  it  is  a  masterpiece  because 
it  is  the  consummation  of  its  kind.  It  deserves 
the  most  careful  preservation  in  detail  photo- 
graphs and  coloured  drawings.  There  could 
hardly  be  a  better  memorial  of  Spanish  influence 
in  America  than  an  exhaustive  and  adequate  pub- 
lication of  the  Antiguan  ruins. 


82  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

In  the  old  cathedral  is  yet  another  remarkable 
example  of  moulded  stucco.  The  sunlight  pours 
through  the  fallen  dome  and  thus  illumines  the 
pendentives  and  the  crowning  circular  frieze  in 
all  their  richness  of  Intertwining  ornament.  In 
each  pendentive  stands  an  angel  dressed  in  broad 
flounced  skirt  and  ribboned  knee-boots  which  give 
a  strange  air  of  earthly  cavalier  to  these  Inhab- 
itants of  heaven.  They  swing  censers  against  an 
amazing  background  of  writhing  and  interlacing 
cords,  above  which  there  circles  a  frieze  as  intri- 
cate as  filigree.  Above  the  aisles  stretch  wall- 
spaces  between  the  pendentives,  and  these  are 
pierced  by  a  splayed  window  whose  receding 
mouldings  have  the  richest  and  least  analysable 
ornament  of  all. 

But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  all  the  churches 
have  this  abundant  grace  of  surface.  On  the  con- 
trary, some  of  the  facades  are  ugly  in  their  plain- 
ness. The  solidity  of  their  walls  Is  echoed  in 
heavy  windows,  squat  columns,  and  deep  niches. 
A  favorite  feature  Is  a  great  octagonal  window, 
heavily  splayed,  which  looks  like  a  gigantic  port- 
hole between  the  heavy  buttresses.  Even  the 
niches  not  uncommonly  assume  this  form,  and  the 
unfortunate  facades  become  unwieldy  and  grace- 
less. 

For  the  rest,  these  old  churches  are  a  matter 


Antigua  83 

• 
for  the  wandering  idler  or  the  architectural  his- 
torian. For  the  one  they  are  inexhaustible  in 
their  ruined  charm  and  the  spell  of  their  associa- 
tions; for  the  other  they  have  a  variety  that  only 
the  trained  eye  can  truly  see. 

Antigua  is  viewed  in  half  a  day,  yet  known  and 
understood  not  even  by  those  who  have  visited  it 
a  score  of  times,  much  less  (of  course)  by  those 
who  live  there  all  their  lives. 

3p  5|C  5jC  3|I  ip  5j€  2t* 

The  church  of  Santa  Clara  is  unmolested  by 
antiquarian  veneration.  Muck  of  a  cow-stable 
covers  the  narrow  space  in  front  of  its  facade. 
The  portico  is  an  Indian's  home.  A  tiny  fire 
smokes  on  the  once  holy  floor,  and  gourds  and 
dirty  cooking-things  lie  littered  about.  When  I 
visited  it  no  one  was  at  home.  In  the  roofless 
nave  I  found  a  patch  of  corn  with  banana-plants 
down  the  middle  and  an  Indian  girl  curled  up 
asleep  on  a  bundle  of  dirty  rags.  In  the  cloister 
the  heavy  vegetation  hid  the  ruins  of  the  two- 
storied  ambulatory.  In  the  centre,  within  a 
thicket,  stood  the  old  fountain  with  water  still 
running  into  its  many-sided  basin.  I  could  not 
help  feeling  that  not  one  mere  Indian  girl,  but 
all  the  old  grandeur  of  Spain  was  sleeping  there, 
ruined  and  overgrown.  No  one  thinks  of  it  or 
cares  for  it  now.     Rain  and  sunlight  stream  into 


84  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

the  house  of  incense  and  candle-light,  that  a  dirty- 
Indian  may  live  on  bananas  and  corn  where  his 
ancestors  knelt  at  prayer. 

Nearby  are  greater  ruins  and  mightier  desola- 
tion. No  doubt  it  is  a  great  exaggeration  to  com- 
pare the  church  of  St.  Francis  with  the  Baths  of 
Caracalla.  Yet  some  kindred  emotion  haunts 
this  greatest  of  Antiguan  relics,  which,  like  the 
Roman,  has  its  own  secret  of  largeness  and  vast- 
ness.  The  piers  and  many  of  the  arches  still 
stand;  but  the  roof  has  fallen  in,  bringing,  as  in 
Santa  Clara,  sun  and  rain  through  its  shattered 
vaulting  to  foster  a  riot  of  green  in  every  place 
where  seeds  may  fall  or  blow.  There  is  still  some 
of  the  old  carving  on  the  spandrels  of  the  de- 
pressed arches  which  carry  the  schola  cantorum — 
rosettes  and  twining  ribbons.  Here  and  there  in 
other  parts  painted  arabesques  shine  with  a  clear 
and  unexpected  freshness  of  blue  or  green  or 
brown.  But  it  is  the  rank  desolation  and  the 
emptiness  that  bring  a  sense  of  greatness  for 
which  the  actual  measurements  give  no  warrant. 

Adjoining  are  ample  ruins  of  refectory  and 
dormitory  which  serve  to  increase  the  impression 
of  one-time  ecclesiastical  magnificence. 

One  of  the  old  bells,  a  fine  piece  of  figured 
casting,  hangs  in  the  belfry  of  the  church.  From 
its   crumbling   eyrie    one    looks   across   Antigua. 


Antigua  85 

Santa  Clara  is  in  the  foreground.  Beyond  stand 
the  cathedral  and  the  mayoralty  and  the  barracks 
which  frame  the  Plaza.  Beyond  these  are  red 
roofs,  and  beyond  these  the  hills. 

On  the  whole,  though  there  was  much  build- 
ing, it  was  not  a  period  of  great  architects.  The 
structures  were  simple  and  massive;  the  plans  are 
straightforward  and  obvious,  as  good  plans 
should  be.  But  as  the  ornamentation  is  accessory 
rather  than  integral,  with  all  the  illogical  and 
unnecessary  evils  of  the  baroque,  I  imagine  that 
they  make  finer  ruins  than  they  ever  made  archi- 
tecture. Their  number  and  nearness  to  each 
other  are  barely  explicable.  The  townsmen  claim 
the  ruins  of  more  than  forty  churches.  I  failed 
to  count  more  than  half  that  number,  but  a  greater 
patience  might  well  have  been  rewarded.  There 
must  have  been  a  vast  clan  of  priests;  and  though 
in  Spanish  days  the  capital  may  have  been  a 
larger  town  than  the  present  Antigua,  yet  the 
most  generous  calculations  leave  a  host  of  idle 
churches  and  idle  churchmen.  Old  accounts  add 
that  the  furnishings  were  very  costly,  and  that 
gold  and  precious  stones  were  plentiful.  Legend, 
perhaps;  yet  it  must  have  been  a  strange  period 
of  priestly  splendour  dominating  a  simple  and 
pious  savage  race.  From  all  of  that,  enough  re- 
mains to  make  Antigua  a  charmed  spot  such  as 


86  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

we  find  so  often  in  the  Old  World  and  look  for  so 
vainly  in  the  New.  Antigua  has  character  and 
atmosphere.  It  is  not  a  commercial  ant-hill,  but 
a  ruined  soul.  That  is  one  reason  why  it  is  dirty 
and  uncomfortable  and  lazy  and  good-for-noth- 
ing; for  these  are  often  part  of  that  unworldly 
gift  which  we  call  temperament. 

In  the  ruins  of  one  of  the  largest  churches  the 
Indians  hold  their  market.  Fore-court,  nave,  and 
cloister,  all  three  are  filled  with  colour.  There 
is  no  hubbub  and  stir,  no  crying  of  wares  nor 
Italian  penny-drama.  The  women  squat  on  the 
ground  with  their  little  store  spread  out  before 
them.  They  have  carried  every  ounce  of  it  to 
town  upon  their  heads;  so  that  each  has  a  mere 
basketful  to  offer,  and  their  day's  profits  are  de- 
cidedly por  menor.  At  least  half  of  them  bring 
their  babies.  I  never  tired  of  the  little  round 
dark  faces  with  shining  black  shoe-button  eyes 
that  looked  out  so  contentedly  from  the  fold  of 
dirty  cloth  in  which  they  had  been  slung  upon 
their  mother's  back.  Savage  babies,  having  no 
conviction  of  self-importance,  neither  play  nor 
howl.  They  are  jogged  into  market  (for  the 
Indian  always  trots  while  on  errand)  and  spend 
the  day  en  papoose,  silent  and  unremonstratlve. 

On  four  sides  stand  the  shattered  walls,  their 


Antigua  87 

core  of  red  brick  laid  bare  through  the  broken 
plaster.  Where  the  surface  is  still  good  on  soffit 
of  arch,  on  impost,  or  on  springing  of  some  fallen 
vault,  the  arabesques  keep  their  colour  and  their 
line,  reminiscent  of  Spaniard  and  of  Moor.  Over- 
head is  the  open  sunny  sky.  From  here  and  there 
one  catches  a  glimpse  of  the  peaked  hats  of  the 
volcanoes.  What  a  setting  for  the  blotched  and 
huddled  colours  of  the  Mayas'  petty  merchandry ! 
Little  by  little  one  learns  the  names  and  natures 
of  all  the  strange  wares;  but  the  first  effect  is  still 
the  best,  before  knowledge  has  intervened  between 
the  senses  and  the  imagination,  or  familiarity  has 
dulled  the  eyes  to  the  medley  of  shapes  and  hues. 

On  the  walls  is  a  stencilled  list  of  the  probable 
articles  for  sale,  with  the  amount  of  the  octroi  on 
each — a  tax  so  minute  that  there  is  no  currency 
to  pay  it.  Every  Indian  bringing  goods  to  market 
surrenders  a  coupon  to  the  official  at  the  doorway 
in  payment  for  his  right  to  sell.  "From  him  that 
hath  not.  .  .  ."  No  doubt  it  is  justifiable 
revenue;  yet  the  American  visitor  emerges  from 
such  a  scene  with  a  feeling  of  awe  for  his  own 
affluence. 

The  Indians  are  a  fascinating  people.  I  have 
always  been  suspicious  and  a  little  impatient  of 
the  present-day  cult  of  our  own  vanished  red- 
skins.    Through  the  cloud  of  sentimentality  one 


88  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

seems  to  discern  a  race  unbelievably  cruel,  savage, 
and  shiftless.  The  present-day  Guatemalan  na- 
tive has  only  the  last  of  these  characteristics.  He 
is  not  manifestly  related  by  race  to  the  Indians 
of  North  America,  whose  high  cheek-bones  and 
peculiar  profile  he  lacks.  Instead  the  untrained 
observer  is  sometimes  reminded  of  Japanese  peas- 
ant types ;  and  this  resemblance  is  accentuated  by 
the  rough  short  skirt,  the  sleeved  blouse,  and  the 
broad-brimmed  hat  in  which  the  men  are  so  often 
dressed.  At  other  times  the  Mayas  of  the  carved 
walls  of  Palenque  and  the  idols  of  Copan  seem 
to  have  come  to  life. 

The  Indians  still  speak  their  native  tongues, 
in  which  I  was  tempted  to  seek  instruction  until 
I  discovered  that  in  Guatemala  alone  there  are 
some  twenty  dialects.  The  sound  for  the  most 
part  is  harsh  and  guttural,  full  of  tsh  and  Scottish 
och.  At  times  I  thought  that  its  effect  could  be 
best  suggested  by  saying  that  it  was  like  Welsh, 
only  more  so;  at  other  times  it  seemed  a  flood  of 
whispered  gutturals.  To  hear  Indian  children 
talking  Spanish  is  to  listen  to  the  twittering  and 
squeaking  of  bats.  Many  of  the  men  know  no 
Spanish.  To  all  one's  remarks  and  inquiries  these 
invariably  shout  "No!  no!"  in  a  loud  and  seem- 
ingly terrified  tone. 

Western  Guatemala,  in  fact,  is  not  a  Spanish, 


Antigua  89 

but  an  Indian  land.  Ninety-five  per  cent  of  the 
population  is  Indian  (and  to  my  thinking,  if  a 
strain  of  Indian  blood  is  determinative,  the  other 
five  per  cent  is  rather  Indian,  too).  They  are  a 
silent  and  incurious  folk,  dumb  beasts  of  burden 
without  greeting  for  each  other  as  they  pass. 
They  have  few  jests  among  themselves  and  laugh 
but  little.  Of  course,  there  are  exceptions  like  the 
whistling  landlord  of  San  Carlos  Sija  (whose  ex- 
tensive repertory  of  cheerful  sounds  includes  no 
recognizable  tune)  ;  but  sober  hilarity  and  banter 
are  strange  to  them.  They  are  addicted  to  the 
terribly  strong  brandy  which  is  manufactured 
from  sugar-cane.  On  Sunday  evening  the  ap- 
proaches to  the  villages  are  thick  with  reeling  or 
fallen  figures.  One  sees  with  repulsion  drunken 
women  with  children  slung  on  their  backs,  lurch- 
ing across  the  road.  They  will  roll  about  on  the 
steep  dirty  pavings  in  drunken  stupor,  or  lie  all 
night  by  the  roadside  in  the  rain:  and  the  child 
must  suffer. 

Such  drunkenness,  however,  is  a  Dominical  ex- 
ception. On  their  sober  week-days  they  are  a 
much  more  attractive  race.  The  men  frequently 
are  handsome  and  the  women  beautiful.  One 
morning  I  saw  an  Indian  standing  in  the  doorway. 
His  brown  legs  were  bare  to  the  loins;  his  ragged 
clothes  were  slung,  rather  than  worn,  about  his 


90  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

shoulders,  and  there  was  a  barbaric  touch  of 
colour  in  the  faded  brilliance  of  red  and  the  soiled 
white  with  which  he  was  festooned.  He  carried  a 
net  on  his  back,  and  the  weight  of  its  pack  made 
him  stoop.  He  was  holding  out  some  dirty  bills 
and  making  a  helpless  and  wordless  appeal  to 
someone  beyond  my  sight.  Behind  his  clear  hawk- 
like profile  there  played  the  strong  sunshine  of 
early  morning;  and  the  doorway,  framing  him  in, 
made  still  more  striking  and  picturesque  that  new- 
world  silhouette. 

The  young  girls  have  fine  erect  bodies  which 
they  are  not  taught  to  hide  nor  need  to  display. 
From  carrying  all  their  burdens  on  their  heads, 
they  develop  a  carriage  and  a  poise  which  puts 
our  northern  ways  to  shame.  The  men,  on  the 
other  hand,  by  putting  everything  on  their  backs, 
soon  develop  a  slouching  and  slovenly  gait,  which 
the  women  are  quick  to  acquire  as  soon  as  they 
have  children  to  carry  about. 

I  was  eager  to  ascend  Agua,  though  I  knew  that 
the  season  was  anything  but  propitious.  Every 
day  by  noon  the  cone  was  under  cloud,  while  the 
afternoon  rains  made  camping  difficult.  Accord- 
ingly I  determined  to  make  the  trip  in  a  single 
day,  and  drove  off  in  the  complete  darkness  of 
four  o'clock.    In  the  course  of  two  hours  I  learned 


FEAST    OF   THE    VIRGIN,    GUATEMALA    CITY 


Antigua  ^i 

much  of  the  patience,  goodness,  and  long-suffer- 
ing of  that  intangible  destiny  which  we  name  the 
Center  of  Gravity.  The  road  was  washed-out 
and  probably  dangerous;  but  as  the  driver  did 
not  seem  to  mind,  it  seemed  unreasonable  for  me 
to  object.  At  sunrise  we  were  two  thousand  feet 
above  Antigua  on  the  skirts  of  the  volcano.  Here 
stood  a  wretched  hamlet,  Santa  Maria,  and  here 
the  local  despot  furnished  horse  and  guide  and 
breakfast  and  cordiality. 

There  is  a  trail  to  the  summit.  In  spite  of 
occasional  obstacles  it  is  excellent  going.  Half- 
way up  I  declined  to  have  the  blood  of  even  so 
small  a  thing  as  a  lank  and  ribbed  nag  upon  my 
soul,  and  proceeded  more  rapidly  on  foot.  After 
a  few  thousand  feet  of  deep  tangled  woodland, 
the  heavier  vegetation  became  discouraged  and 
little  by  little  gave  way  to  pine  and  grass.  At 
the  top  there  was  only  arid  and  stunted  growth. 

The  crater  was  a  wild  sparse  bowl,  ringed  with 
black  and  brown  cliffs  a  couple  of  hundred  feet 
high.  The  volcano  had  obviously  been  long  ex- 
tinct.    The  view  was  the  thing. 

The  Pacific  coastland  lay  twelve  thousand  feet 
directly  below,  a  greenish  blue  sea  of  vegetation 
merging  into  a  palish  blue  ocean  of  water.  On 
the  other  sides  were  the  hills  and  the  volcanoes, — 
Fire,  just  across  the  way;  Pacaya  and  the  Kettle 


92  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

to  the  East,  with  the  ravishing  ghnt  of  the  sky- 
blue  lake  of  Amatltlan  directly  underfoot.  It  was 
an  ^schylean  Prometheus  view, — nothing  else 
can  give  the  spirit  of  blown  air  and  sheer  height 
and  outspread  earth  and  sea. 

Within  half  an  hour  the  clouds  shut  me  In  with 
cold  fog  and  whistling  winds,  and  I  was  glad  to 
descend.  I  reached  Santa  Maria  In  the  early 
afternoon  and  Antigua  In  time  for  dinner.  It  was 
fortunate  that  I  returned  so  early,  as  It  chanced 
to  be  the  festival  of  St.  James  and  the  town  was 
en  fete. 

After  dinner  I  followed  the  crowds  to  the 
square  (which  Is  the  only  really  picturesque  thing 
In  Guatemala)  and  there  I  watched  a  man  In  a 
frame  of  sputtering  fuses  and  exploding  fireworks. 
He  trotted  up  and  down,  followed  by  the  boys 
of  the  town,  who  charged  the  shower  of  harmless 
sparks  and  taunted  him  until  some  sudden  volley 
of  squibs  and  bursting  fire-balls  put  them  to  flight. 
No  doubt  you  have  guessed  the  tradition:  it  is 
all  that  is  left  of  toro  and  toreadores. 

Central  America  has  such  a  passion  for  fire- 
works that  even  the  broad  daylight  Is  filled  with 
the  unsexed  and  feeble  fury  of  noonday  rockets. 
On  Sundays  the  mass-goers  are  greeted  with  them 
at  the  church-doors;  the  dead  are  burled  to  their 
popping;  the  returning  pilgrim  has  a  couple  on  his 


Antigua  93 

back,  to  set  off  when  he  reaches  home.  Noise  Is  a 
ritual  to  primitive  minds;  and  perhaps  a  rocket- 
flight  imparts  the  same  emotion  as  a  church-spire. 
Indians  who  are  too  poor  to  buy  bread  still  have 
their  "cohetes."  As  I  write,  and  as  you  read, 
there  are  rockets  blowing  their  heads  off  in  a 
thousand  Indian  villages  between  Mexico  and 
Panama.  And  the  black  buzzards  on  the  house- 
tops are  paying  not  the  slightest  attention  to  their 
explosion. 

Often  I  looked  up  longingly  to  the  peak  of 
Fire;  but  I  had  no  tent  and  in  the  rainy  season  I 
could  not  go  without  one.  So  I  stayed  below  and 
contented  myself  with  gazing.  I  cannot  tell  you 
what  a  spectacle  he  is.  After  a  drenching  June 
rain  a  cloud-belt  of  unimaginably  brilliant  white 
will  hide  all  the  lower  reaches  and  leave  only  the 
sunny  peak  of  red  against  a  quilted  sky's  patch- 
work of  white  and  blue.  In  the  foreground  are 
the  coffee  plantations  and  eucalyptus  alleys  with 
the  light  catching  the  wet  leaves.  You  may  ride 
on  through  the  cool  and  shadowy  plantations 
hardly  touched  by  the  sun.  Then  there  will  come 
a  sudden  gap,  and  you  will  look  out  from  the 
half-darkness,   and  there  in  the  sky  will  be  the 

great  head  of  the  volcano  again. 
******* 


94  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

One  morning,  remembering  how  beautiful  had 
been  the  lake  which  I  had  seen  from  the  top  of 
Agua,  I  disturbed  Colorada's  fattening  medita- 
tions and  rode  up  over  the  shoulder  of  the  vol- 
cano and  down  on  the  other  side  to  Amatitlan, 
the  town  on  the  edge  of  the  lake. 

I  found  an  inn.  No  one  was  interested  to  know 
who  I  was  or  what  I  did  or  whence  I  came.  They 
tolerated  my  presence — barely  that.  I  did  not 
mind.  Nor  did  it  annoy  me  that  they  promised 
fodder  for  Colorada  and  brought  none.  An  hour 
later  as  I  crossed  the  town-square,  laden  with 
corn  of  my  own  provisioning,  I  was  watched  with- 
out surprise,  shame,  or  resentment.  It  was  only 
a  symbol  of  what  they  were  and  how  they  did. 
The  courtyard  was  a  wilderness  of  flowers,  like 
Eden  after  Eve  had  been  forced  to  give  up 
gardening.  Throughout  the  inn  everything  that 
might  have  made  for  comfort  and  orderliness  was 
turned  to  squalor  and  untidiness.  Every  room 
was  like  a  grandfather's  clock  run  down  a  genera- 
tion ago.  There  is  always  that  air  about  Spanish 
things:  they  have  had  a  past. 

Weary  of  the  household  with  Its  hostile  in- 
curiousness,  its  bad  food,  its  unkempt  condition, 
I  went  out.  The  town  was  no  better.  Dirty  pink 
and  blue  house-fronts,  drink-shops,  slovenly  little 
stores  full  of  low-grade  odds  and  ends,  dirt  and 


Anttcfua  95 

decay  and  indifference — it  was  all  of  a  piece. 
Spanish  decadence  has  not  even  vice  to  redeem  it. 
It  is  as  inactive  as  a  rusted  spring  or  a  roof  that 
has  fallen  in.  Woe  to  the  traveller  in  Spanish 
lands,  if  his  artist-eye  loses  its  sharpness !  When 
mere  decay  has  foregone  its  glamour,  when  the 
back  aches  from  weeks  in  the  saddle,  and  the 
stomach  is  vicious  in  its  complaint  of  evil  food, 
when  the  air  is  hot  and  heavy  with  rain,  a  Guate- 
malan town  burns  on  his  spirit  like  a  fly  in  the 
sore  of  a  horse's  back. 

I  felt  that  I  had  endured  enough  of  the 
wretched  country.  Cursing  the  streets  through 
which  I  walked,  I  came  out  at  the  town's  edge 
upon  the  grey-blue  lake  where  the  steep  green 
volcanic  slopes  ended  in  a  fairyland  of  trees  with 
branches  bent  over  to  the  mirror  of  windless 
water;  and  all  my  ill-humour  went  like  a  dream. 

There  is  only  one  true  magician  in  this  world, 
one  veritable  wand  of  enchantment.  There  is  no 
formula  for  the  beauty  with  which  she  works. 
One  can  account  for  formal  beauty  in  a  measure, 
the  mind  can  analyse  its  symmetries  and  relations; 
but  the  beauty  of  trees  and  winds  and  high  hills 
and  broad  sunlight  and  running  streams  is  sheer 
magic,  working  without  reason  by  its  mere  po- 
tency. And  because  it  is  untamable  to  logic  and 
explication,  it  is  incommunicable  to  him  who  does 


g6  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

not  feel  it.  A  Spanish  gentleman  to  whom  I  con- 
fided my  love  of  riding  the  Guatemalan  hills 
shrugged  his  shoulders.     "Trees!"  said  he. 

A  path  brought  me  up  to  a  grassy  shoulder 
high  above  the  lake.  Beyond,  Agua  was  wreath- 
ing and  unwreathing  her  head  with  cloud.  The 
eastern  volcanoes  were  driven  deep  with  thunder- 
storm. Below  was  the  intricate  wonderland  of 
trees  in  steep  descent  to  the  water.  After  all, 
thought  I,  it  was  not  for  the  towns  that  I  came 
to  Guatemala. 

And  when  I  returned  to  the  village  I  found  that 
I  could  be  as  tolerant  of  its  monstrous  unworthi- 
ness  as  the  Spanish  law  is  tolerant  of  beggars  and 
the  Spanish  houses  of  dirt. 

Next  day  I  rode  up  to  Guatemala  City.  It  was 
as  I  had  feared:  the  civilisation  was  too  advanced. 
Within  a  week  I  was  off  on  my  travels  again, 
headed  this  time  for  Salvador.  But  that  shall 
make  my  next  chapter. 


CHAPTER    IV 

RIDING  TO  SALVADOR 

The  scene  is  laid  once  more  in  mud  and  water. 
The  only  stage-mechanism  is  rain  and  thunder. 
The  ox-carts  go  by,  their  great  wheels  sunken 
to  the  hubs,  the  oxen  plunging  and  wallowing, 
the  drivers  nearly  naked,  knee-deep  in  the  morass 
which  was  a  road,  prodding  the  oxen  with  pointed 
sticks,  and  shouting  to  each  other,  to  the  oxen, 
to  God  in  heaven.  The  rain  is  nearly  blinding. 
When  the  gust  pauses,  there  are  only  earth  banks 
on  either  side,  crowned  with  the  jaundiced  leaf 
of  the  tree  called  Evil  Herb.  There  is  no  glimpse 
of  the  country-side  without;  only  the  stretch  of 
mud  which  the  oxen  have  churned  and  the  rain- 
curtained  hedge  like  a  line  of  vegetable  soldiery 
to  keep  the  traveller  from  taking  in  despair  to 
the  empty  hills. 

The  anguish  of  riding  is  not  easily  described. 
There  are  mud-holes,  unavoidable,  and  stretches 
which  seem  impassable.  At  times,  with  Colorada 
shoulder-deep  and  very  frightened,  we  plunged 
and  strained,  only  going  on  because  it  could  not 

97 


98  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

be  worse  than  returning.  In  other  places  travel 
lapsed  to  the  rainy  monotony  of  Kipling's  ele- 
phants "in  the  sludgy  squdgy  creek."  Then  came 
renewed  thunder  and  lightning  in  the  hills  accom- 
panied by  an  unbelievable  downpour.  At  any 
rate,  one  came  to  know  how  Augustus  felt  on  that 
wild  night  of  storm  in  the  Pyrenees  when  the 
lightning  struck  close  to  his  litter  and  his  bearers 
floundered  to  their  waists*  in  mud.  The  anecdote 
is  imperial,  but  the  experience  has  little  of  regal 
dignity.  The  purpled  emperor,  if  he  fared  like 
Colorada  and  me,  must  have  been  a  pretty  sight 
next  morning.  I  felt  like  Max  and  Moritz  just 
emerged  from  the  baker's  trough  of  dough,  and 
Colorada  must  have  felt  still  worse;  for  she  had 
torn  off  half  of  a  shoe  and  was  rapidly  going 
lame. 

"But  for  to  tellen  you  of  his  array. 
His  hors  were  goode,  but  he  was  nat  gay." 

It  was  a  day  of  blank  despond  without  human 
incident  or  cheer. 

We  find  strange  solace  at  such  times.  What 
Colorada  may  have  found  lies  beyond  mere 
human  intuition.  For  myself,  I  have  long  ago 
forgotten  the  watery  misery  of  body,  yet  I  re- 
member still  the  buzzards  on  the  house-tops  as  I 
left  Guatemala  City  in  the  early  morning  and 
the  singing  and  flitting  of  brown  and  grey-green 


Riding  to  Salvador  99 

birds  among  the  lush  woodland  in  the  later  after- 
noon. Like  the  long-winged  sun-disks  over  an- 
cient Egyptian  doorways,  the  buzzards  were  hold- 
ing out  their  pointed  wings  for  the  rising  sun  to 
dry.  They  were  like  the  cranes  in  Hauff's  mar- 
vellous fairy-tale.  It  was  the  same  spirit  of  bird- 
solemnity  touched  for  the  spectator  with  gro- 
tesqueness  and  pathos  and  set  by  some  eery 
fashion  in  a  frame  of  ritual  and  magic.  Great 
and  ugly,  they  stood  on  the  red  gables,  motionless, 
tip  of  beautiful  wing  almost  touching  tip  of  wing, 
like  priests  in  mummery,  facing  the  sunrise.  As 
I  rode  on,  the  misty  sun  was  annihilated  in  the 
sweep  of  clouds.  But  when  I  had  passed  the  hill- 
ridges  and  slithered  down  roads  which  reversed 
all  normal  conventions  of  surface  drainage,  the 
sun  once  more  illumined  my  grey  and  porcine 
career,  and  as  I  rode  through  the  wet  woods 
the  birds  came  out,  sleek  and  trim  and  jubilant, 
like  the  return  of  happiness  after  long  misfortune. 
And  of  all  that  afternoon's  countryside  I  remem- 
ber only  that  there  were  occasional  great  oaks  and 
pebbled  crossings  of  shining  brooks  and,  every- 
where about  me,  bird-song. 

At  dusk  I  made  a  dirty  down-at-the-heels 
pueblo  in  which  a  line  of  African  huts  gave  way 
to  a  street  of  adobe  shops  and  a  couple  of  inns. 
That  evening  in  the  narrow  public  room  five  men 


100  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

pounded  a  pair  of  marimbas  into  an  unmannerly 
reverberation  of  a  North-American  tune.  The 
closed  doors  were  their  sounding  boards,  and  I 
their  victim,  too  tired  to  escape.  But  it  is  sweet 
to  share  misery.  Looking  up  I  saw  that  half  a 
dozen  little  green  parrots  were  perched  near  the 
ceiling,  blinking  their  eyes,  martyred.  Anyone 
could  see  that  they  were  very,  very  wise,  and  (like 
most  really  wise  folk)  extremely  unhappy.  And 
that,  said  I,  is  like  the  scorn  of  omniscient  eternity 
for  the  evil  transiency  of  human  art.  But  as  I 
said  it  in  English,  the  drunken  deserter  from 
Salvador  went  on  shouting  to  me  that  when  it 
came  to  a  point  of  honour  a  subaltern  should  not 
hesitate  to  shoot  his  superior,  and  the  marimberos 
continued  to  pound  their  devil's-anvil,  and  the 
plagued  and  sleepy  birds  on  the  rafter  tried  miser- 
ably to  doze. 

Through  all  my  journey  I  was  haunted  by  this 
implied  comment  of  the  bird-folk.  In  filthy  court- 
yards walked  the  teal-like  duck  which  they  call 
the  pijiji,  and  always  he  kept  himself  so  trim  and 
tidy  amid  the  immundicity  that  the  contrast  ought 
to  have  penetrated  even  to  those  shameless  races. 
Down  in  a  Pacific  port  of  the  country,  on  another 
occasion,  I  watched  the  pelicans  coming  home 
along  the  lagoon.  I  had  left  the  village  in  dis- 
gust of  its  two-storied  balconied  houses  set  crazily 


Riding  to  Salvador  lOi 

upon  piles  on  the  narrow  beach  of  dark  volcanic 
sand.  Inland,  a  row  of  tumble-down  shanties  on 
either  side  of  a  railroad  track  had  brought  the 
sense  of  a  Hfetime  acquaintance  during  the  heat  of 
a  single  afternoon,  A  fairly  white  man  in  fairly 
white  linen  had  crossed  the  track  a  couple  of  times 
before  I  discovered  that  he  had  only  two  steady 
points  of  call,  both  alcoholic,  and  that  he  was  cross- 
ing from  one  to  the  other  without  other  pause 
than  the  consumption  of  brandy  exacted.  Each 
trip  became  more  hazardous  than  the  preceding 
one  for  this  human  ferry  for  whom  the  straight 
line  of  steel  rail  must  long  since  have  abandoned 
its  easy  equation  of  the  first  degree,  to  revel  in 
asymptotic  curves  and  those  more  delirious  forms 
familiar  only  to  the  mathematician  and  the  drunk- 
ard. The  end  came  at  last.  His  foot,  striving 
to  overstep  the  elusive  metal,  found  the  barrier  in- 
surmountable. Soon  he  was  lying  on  the  open 
track  in  a  stupor,  his  head  bare  to  the  blazing  sun. 
The  Indians  passed  and  saw  him  with  indifference. 
No  one  helped  him,  until  a  white  woman  found 
him  and  brought  men  to  the  scene.  I  left  in  dis- 
gust and  sought  the  uninhabited  shore. 

The  pelicans  were  coming  home.  Their  large 
ungainly  heads  showed  clear  and  sharp  against 
the  sky-line.  They  were  soaring  on  their  wide 
wings,  splendid  beautiful  fliers,  a  delight  for  the 


UNIVE^^  ORNIA* 


102  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

body-prisoned  eye.  Low  over  the  surf  came  one, 
sailing  without  beat  of  wing  under  the  smooth 
curl  of  the  glassy  wave  and  without  effort  just 
avoiding  the  white  crash  of  falling  water  as  the 
great  wave  broke.  And  I  thought  how  I  had 
but  now  seen  a  biped  who  could  not  so  much  as 
cross  a  railroad-track.  Clearly  the  pelicans  were 
the  best  blood  in  the  place. 

With  the  last  of  the  birds  the  sun  set  Behind 
the  sea-line.  Near  by,  the  great  surf  under  the 
rusted  iron  pier  gradually  took  on  phosphorescent 
Hues  in  its  broken  depths,  the  lights  shone  in  the 
cabin  of  the  little  freighter  at  anchor,  and  the 
stars  came  out.  I  walked  back  to  the  village. 
It  was  Saturday  night  and  everyone  was  drunk. 

I  thought  of  all  this  through  the  din  of  the 
marimbas  in  Barberena,  and  the  memory  of  that 
Pacific  evening  drove  me  out-of-doors  in  the  hope 
of  that  silence  which  is  so  much  more  musical  than 
sound.  Colorada  was  still  at  supper.  The  light 
of  a  full  Guatemalan  moon  flooded  the  littered 
yard.  It  was  a  time  for  nightingales.  But  it 
was  well  that  there  were  none.  The  birds  al- 
ready had  more  than  proved  their  superiority; 
and  never  had  I  felt  it  more  keenly  than  that 
afternoon  when  the  mule  and  I  limped  on  our  be- 
draggled way,  mud-caked  and  heathen,  while 
above  us   in   the  branches   sang  the   glad  clean 


Riding  to  Salvador  103 

feathered  folk.  But  I  dared  not  communicate 
my  impressions  to  any  one;  and  as  Colorada 
proved  indifferent  to  anything  except  food,  I  de- 
barred her  from  my  recently-formed  category  of 
animals  superior  to  man,  and  went  to  bed. 

3|c  :)c  :):  H^  H:  ^  ^ 

It  was  in  this  part  of  the  land  that  I  encounter- 
ed a  coffee-planter  whose  Spanish  proclaimed  him 
a  fellow-countryman  of  mine.  Acquaintance 
turned  to  mutual  liking,  liking  to  hospitality,  and 
hospitality  to  a  three  days'  visit.  We  turned  off 
from  the  Salvador  highway  and  soon  were  riding 
through  the  dark  solitude  of  evenly  planted  coffee- 
bushes.  This  plantation,  said  my  new  friend,  be- 
longed to  a  Belgian;  and  we  would  drop  in  on  him, 
as  our  path  led  past  his  door. 

There  soon  appeared  a  wooden  house  with 
broad  verandahs  and  a  general  look  of  unkempt 
habitability.  At  the  uproar  of  the  dogs,  the 
planter  emerged,  uncoated,  voluble.  We  should 
stop,  we  should  open  a  bottle  of  wine,  we  should 
have  music.  Red-faced  and  well-stomached,  he 
poured  forth  his  un-Parisian  French  like  the  gush 
of  an  oil-well  newly  liberated.  He  dragged  us 
off  our  animals,  and  laughed  at  all  we  said. 
Schumann's  Merry  Farmer  played  with  bouncing 
gusto  would  have  been  his  musical  embodiment. 
An  hour  later  I  knew  that  his  wine  was  excru- 


104  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

ciatingly  sour,  that  his  phonograph  records  were 
scratched  and  out  of  tune,  that  his  house  was  in 
confusion,  that  his  table-cloth  was  as  coffee- 
stained  as  his  shirt-front,  that  his  house  needed 
paint  and  his  verandah  repair,  that  his  anecdotes 
were  stupid  and  his  gesticulations  silly;  but  when 
I  knew  all  that,  I  had  been  riding  for  half  an 
hour,  Belgian  and  finca  had  been  left  behind,  and 
the  whirl  of  chuckling  riotous  farewell  had  soften- 
ed Into  the  solitude  of  the  dark  bushes  of  berry- 
laden  coffee.  Dionysos  never  wrought  more  il- 
lusion out  of  pine-stick  and  ivy-spray  and  goat- 
skin sack  than  that  Belgian  whirlwind  blowing 
amid  his  bottles  of  acid  wine  and  disks  of  sour 
music. 

"He's  always  like  that,"  said  my  new  friend. 
"My  stomach  is  nearly  ruined  from  having  to  pass 
this  way." 

Colorada  was  freed,  to  rest  her  strained  and 
shoeless  leg.  In  perfect  happiness  she  roamed  an 
unscythed  field;  and  seeing  her,  I  could  not  help 
thinking  of  the  great  elder-tree  with  its  flowers 
in  Swinburne's  poem,  and  of 

"The  ripe  tall  grass,  and  one  that  walked 
therein. 

Naked,  with  hair  shed  over  to  the  knee." 
In  the  morning  my  friend  loaned  me  a  horse  and 


Riding  to  Salvador  105 

we  started  out  to  make  an  overseer's  round.  I 
called  to  Colorada  as  we  rode  by.  Her  long 
ears  forward,  she  whinnied.  Then,  as  intent  as 
a  mistress  who  sees  her  lover  with  another 
woman,  she  regarded  me  and  my  new  mount  in 
puzzled  silence,  until  at  last  the  fragrant  grass  at 
her  feet  recalled  her  to  less  speculative  activities. 
I  resent  the  sentimental  ascription  of  human  emo- 
tions to  animals  and  I  have  no  conviction  that 
Colorada  experienced  any  feelings  during  that 
tragic  encounter:  I  confine  my  chronicle  to  her 
indubitable  stare. 

My  friend  complained  much  of  the  shiftless 
natives  and  their  lazy  unambitious  ways.  Still, 
after  twenty  years  of  it,  the  country  jangled  his 
nerves.  We  sought  out  a  half-breed's  cabin 
where  a  woman  came  to  the  door  at  our  call. 
Her  man,  she  said,  had  gone  to  Guatemala  City 
to  be  cured. 

"Yesterday,"  said  my  friend,  the  overseer, 
"you  said  he  was  too  sick  to  leave  his  bed.  How 
then  could  he  walk  forty  miles  to-day?" 

To  this  there  was  no  repartee;  but  "indeed,  he 
had  gone!" 

"You  tell  him,"  said  my  friend,  "that  I  am 
tired  of  his  nonsense,  and  that  as  soon  as  he  gets 
that  matter  of  the  boat  fixed  up  he  is  to  get  to 
work  again." 


io6  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  woman,  at  once  admitting 
the  point,  "he  is  down  attending  to  it  now.  I 
will  tell  him  when  he  gets  back." 

We  in  the  North  lie  stubbornly  and  resent  de- 
tection. In  the  tropics  they  desert  their  lies  as 
readily  as  they  abandon  their  mistresses.  "After 
all,"  they  think,  "what  does  it  matter?" 

So  off  we  rode  on  our  round  of  the  plantation 
where  the  natives  were  hoeing  out  the  weeds  and 
banking  the  irrigation-ridges  beneath  the  heavy 
shadow  of  the  coffee-bushes.  So  rapid  is  the 
growth  of  weed  that  a  fortnight  turns  the  brown 
soil  into  a  little  jungle  of  undergrowth,  and  the 
hoe  is  never  still. 

We  rode  for  a  couple  of  hours  with  occasional 
plunges  into  great  copses  and  water-cut  chasms  of 
rioting  green.  Here  and  there  came  a  glimpse 
toward  the  great  volcanoes  on  whom  I  had  turn- 
ed my  back, — Fire  and  Water,  and  the  Kettle,  on 
whose  slopes  my  friend  had  once  seen  the  lava- 
streams  blazing  at  night. 

After  a  time  we  came  to  dirt  mounds  amid  the 
coffee,  a  cluster  of  earthen  barrows  littered  with 
numberless  fragments  of  coarse  pottery  and  with 
shards  and  splinters  of  obsidian  knives.  Here 
stood  a  stone  some  three  feet  square,  carved  to  the 
likeness  of  a  huge  toad,  with  weatherworn  face 
and  limbs.     Near  by  lay  the  broken  head  of  an 


Riding  to  Salvador  107 

idol  with  good  Indian  features  of  the  Maya  race. 
A  line  of  beard  ran  from  lower-lip  to  chin;  an 
ornamental  scroll  variegated  his  ear.  Authority 
and  determination  were  still  upon  him,  though  his 
descendants  of  to-day  have  neither. 

From  the  soil  round  about  I  picked  up  some 
small  terra  cottas,  a  grotesque  demon-head  mask 
with  bird-beak  nose,  and  a  head  most  clearly  and 
humorously  pithecan. 

When  we  returned  to  the  plantation-house  my 
friend  produced  an  ancient  jug  of  good  black  clay 
shaped  in  the  guise  of  a  well-fed  townsman  of 
that  old  Maya  community,  caressing  with  folded 
hands  a  portliness  such  as  even  Falstaff  might 
have  envied. 

Indian  sites  are  frequent  in  Guatemala,  and 
much  minor  art  is  still  to  find.  But  the  traveller 
needs  a  measuring-worm's  methodical  persistence; 
for  even  when  the  sites  are  close  at  hand  he  will 
hear  of  them  not  at  all  or  by  mere  accident.  Di- 
rect enquiry  for  them  will  be  in  vain,  as  the  natives 
have  never  noticed  them  or  are  too  indifferent  to 
be  bothered  with  showing  the  way.  Money,  it 
must  be  remembered,  is  not  an  effective  instrument 
in  the  Spanish  tropics. 

Regretfully  I  left  the  pleasant  Idleness  of 
plantation  life.     I  was  given  an  Indian  servant  to 


io8  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

accompany  me  through  the  coffee-land  back  to  the 
Salvador  road.  In  the  nearest  town  I  presented 
Colorada  with  a  shining  set  of  new  shoes  and 
waited  while  she  had  them  put  on.  It  was  after- 
noon before  I  got  upon  my  way,  and  a  dreary 
rain  soon  overtook  me. 

As  I  passed  through  the  Indian  villages,  the 
sloping  thatch  dripped  monotonously  at  the  eaves, 
the  brown  mud  splashed  underhoof,  and  the  fog 
hung  in  rainy  festoons  among  the  great  trees  over- 
head. There  was  no  sound  but  the  yapping  of 
unfed  dogs  and  the  slapping  of  tortillas,  varied  by 
the  fragmentary  insanities  of  tame  parrots.  I 
saw  no  one.  The  rainy  road  led  on,  and  the  vil- 
lage was  forgotten. 

By  supper-time  I  reached  a  town  whose  length 
of  name  ill  agreed  with  the  shortness  of  its 
streets.  Entirely  destroyed  by  earthquake  a  few 
years  ago,  Cuajiniquilapa  lost  its  metropolitan 
headship  of  the  department,  its  profusion  of 
adobe  houses,  and  a  church  which  I  should  gladly 
have  examined.  Its  dome  had  dinner-plates  bed- 
ded in  the  mortar  (like  some  of  the  churches  on 
i^igean  islands,  I  presume,  or  the  monastery  of 
St.  Nicholas  on  the  Island  of  Salamis).  But  the 
piece  that  crowned  and  closed  the  domical  vault 
was  not  taken  from  table-ware,  but  borrowed 
from  that  equally  useful  nocturnal  service  which 


Riding  to  Salvador  109 

it  is  not  decent  to  name  nor  well-bred  to  insinuate. 
It  is  going  too  far  to  assume  that  even  Nature 
was  shocked  and  to  explain  the  earthquake  on 
grounds  of  her  outraged  delicacy, — even  though 
it  is  characteristic  of  man  in  all  ages  to  elevate  the 
paltry  misdeeds  of  his  hand  or  tongue  to  causes 
for  cosmic  convulsions,  so  colossal  is  the  conceit 
of  his  own  accusing  conscience !  Yet  if  that  is 
indeed  the  explanation,  I  can  only  regret  that 
Nature  passed  judgment  so  hastily.  Does  not 
Browning's  Pippa  enjoin  us  that 

"All  service  ranks  the  same  with  God?" 
Among  the  new  houses  was  one  where  strangers 
could  be  lodged,  and  there  I  revelled  in  fresh  pine- 
apple, whose  taste  alone  repays  a  journey  to  the 
tropics.  I  have  spoken  little  of  Guatemalan 
fruits.  Eating  them  is  apt  to  be  an  acquired 
ability.  The  flavour  of  many  is  as  indescribable 
as  would  be  a  new  colour  which  had  no  kinsman 
in  our  spectrum.  After  all,  mangoes  taste  so 
much  like  mangoes  and  so  little  like  anything  else 
in  the  world,  that  one  can  only  say  that  they  taste 
like  mangoes.  And  if  I  add  that  papayas  are 
very  good  if  you  happen  to  like  them,  I  am  only 
wasting  a  slice  of  printer's  pie.  But  of  pine- 
apples all  may  judge  by  imagining  the  substitution 
of  a  warmly  ripe  and  drippingly  luscious  fruit  for 
that  faintly  flavoured  pulp  which  we  buy  in  our 


no  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

northern  markets,  deluded  by  its  barbaric  ex- 
terior into  the  expectation  of  a  pleasant  dessert. 

The  house  ran  with  dogs,  miscellaneous  in  their 
pedigree.  I  even  suspected  an  ornithic  strain 
when  I  saw  them  begin  to  roost  for  the  night. 
At  dusk  one  took  to  a  high  bench;  another  slept 
on  the  dining-room  table,  to  which  he  correctly 
ascended  by  way  of  a  chair;  while  a  third  climbed 
with  the  utmost  nonchalance  and  a  considerable 
display  of  skill  into  the  low-swung  hammock. 
When,  on  retiring,  I  left  the  door  ajar  the  cat 
came  to  share  my  rest  and  a  fourth  dog  occupied 
the  bed  against  the  other  wall.  'No  doubt,' 
thought  I,  'attentive  observation  of  the  "smale 
fowles"  saves  them  from  rheumatism!' 

I  woke  in  the  middle  of  the  night  to  find  that 
the  rain  had  invaded  the  room  and  that  the  floor 
was  well  under  water.  Outside,  the  moon  was 
struggling  through  the  clouds.  It  was  a  scene 
whose  rippling  beauty  was  marred  only  by  the 
unesthetic  reminiscence  that  I  had  left  my  shoes 
in  the  path  of  inundation.  The  next  morning  the 
dog  was  still  snoozing  drily  in  his  hammock  and 
the  water  had  disappeared.  But  the  shoes  bore 
witness  that  my  vision  was  not  the  mere  disorder 
of  my  dreams. 

Colorada  seemed  ready  for  a  day's  work.  So 
I  saddled  her  in  the  sunrise  and  rode  down  a 


Riding  to  Salvador  ill 

long  descent  to  the  River  of  the  Slaves,  whose 
boulder-strewn  flood  of  roaring  dirty  water  is 
crossed  by  what  may  well  be  the  oldest  bridge  in 
our  western  world.  For  it  was  built  in  1589,  and 
there  are  few  things  on  our  side  of  the  Atlantic 
which  can  number  a  third  of  a  thousand  years. 
Some  of  the  stones  are  new;  but  others  may  well 
be  as  old  as  the  tablet  on  the  crown  of  the  span 
insists. 

For  a  time  the  path  led  up  the  sandy  river- 
valley,  splashing  among  clear  puddles  and  crossing 
little  woodland  streams,  until  the  scenery  lost  its 
good-natured  tranquillity  and  swung  into  the 
savage  reaches  of  deserted  hills.  With  the  path 
winding  up  and  up  in  the  burning  sun.  It  was  long 
before  the  last  of  the  valley  was  left  behind. 
Looking  back  over  the  ragged  tree-land,  forty 
miles  away  I  saw  the  familiar  sugar-loaf  hats  of 
the  great  volcanoes  and  waved  good-bye  to  them. 
As  I  crossed  into  the  new  watershed  they  vanish- 
ed, and  I  came  to  the  village  of  Azacualpa. 

This  was  by  origin  a  Spanish  penal  colony,  and 
had  an  appropriately  evil  repute  through  all  the 
country-side.  In  Azacualpa  they  would  steal  the 
tail  off  the  mule  while  you  were  riding  through. 
From  every  hand  I  had  been  warned  to  waste  no 
time  in  that  robber's  nest.  So  I  was  dutifully 
shuddering  and  riding  on,  when  such  a  burst  of 


112  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

thunderstorm  overtook  me  that,  to  escape  it,  I 
would  cheerfully  have  turned  aside  to  play  Faro 
with  Captain  Flint.  Naturally,  I  found  the 
people  simple  and  kind  and  pleasant.  The 
soldiers  were  willing  to  talk;  the  women  insisted 
on  feeding  me  eggs  and  bread  and  coffee.  Even 
the  dogs  were  friendly.  Colorada,  too,  thought 
highly  of  the  community,  and  I  would  have  spent 
the  night  there;  but  hearing  of  a  larger  town  some 
ten  miles  further  on,  I  set  out  again  in  a  heavy  fog 
which  failed  to  lift.  I  must  have  made  poor 
progress;  for  when  I  slipped  below  the  cloud-line 
into  an  open  valley-basin  it  was  sunset.  Dusk 
came  on  in  the  uninhabited  fields.  Then  came 
darkness  and  rain  and  I  abandoned  the  helm  to 
the  four  feet  of  a  surer  navigator  than  myself. 
For  having  left  the  high  road  in  the  hope  that  a 
short-cut  would  bring  me  to  Quesada  in  time,  my 
only  reward  was  now  the  dim  form  of  an  un- 
meaning hedge  close  at  hand  and  the  provoking 
distant  twinkle  of  an  unknown  light.  It  was  the 
first  and  last  time  that  darkness  was  to  catch  me 
on  the  road. 

Left  to  her  own  mulish  devices  Colorada 
gratefully  lapsed  into  that  speed  whose  ideal  she 
shared  with  tortoises  and  snails.  Lights  appear- 
ed, sudden  as  cloud-uncovered  stars,  and  they 
were  close  at  hand.     Then  came  a  turn,  a  sharp 


Riding  to  Salvador  113 

descent,  and  the  black  rush  of  a  bridgeless  river; 
and  all  the  lights  had  vanished.  Poor  Colorada 
was  unanimously  in  favour  of  remaining  on  the 
hither  shore,  until  my  spurs  overruled  her  last  ob- 
jections and  she  waded  out  into  the  invisible  swirl- 
ing current.  By  good  luck  the  stream  was 
swifter  than  it  was  deep  and  we  struck  the  notch 
in  the  opposite  bank  where  the  road  continued. 
In  five  minutes  more  we  were  in  the  town;  and 
soon  Colorada  was  eating  a  lampless  dinner  of 
corn-stalks  in  the  Municipal  Stables,  while  I, 
supperless  and  a  trifle  wet  from  the  river,  slept 
in  my  clothes  on  the  bench  of  the  Court  of 
Justice. 

I  awoke  in  the  black  hours  of  the  night  to  dis- 
cover that  somebody  was  trying  to  saddle  a  mule 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  When  he  had  finished, 
he  roused  the  roomful  of  Indian  constabulary  for 
fear  that  they  had  failed  to  become  aware  of  his 
departure,  shook  hands  with  each  and  every  one 
of  them,  then  climbed  on  his  mule  and  rode 
through  the  doorway  into  the  pelting  rain. 
Torches  were  extinguished,  candles  blown  out, 
and  sleep  resumed,  when  the  night-watch  entered, 
announced  that  it  was  raining  too  hard  for  mili- 
tary service,  and  began  an  endless  conversation 
in  the  course  of  which  I  fell  asleep  once  more  and 
missed  all  but  the  last  part  of  their  narrative. 


114  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

This  I  woke  to  hear  at  a  time  when  a  grey  light 
was  breaking  through  the  chinks  of  the  wall, 
gradually  transforming  the  shapeless  bundles  on 
the  floor  to  brown  bare  legs  and  snoring  bodies 
of  half-breed  Indians. 

In  the  unexaggerating  light  of  a  breakfastless 
dawn  the  Municipal  Stables  looked  astonishingly 
like  an  ordinary  dirty  back-yard  and  the  Courts  of 
Justice  like  a  small  unfurnished  room  with  brick- 
tile  floors  and  drab  walls.  However,  as  my 
hotel-bill  was  four  cents  American,  it  would  be 
worse  than  ungrateful  for  me  to  spoil  the  illusion 
of  those  stately  names. 

Would  no  one  give  me  coffee?  Perhaps  the 
Chinaman  who  kept  the  store  around  the  corner, 
or  even  the  Frenchman  across  the  square.  The 
square  had  some  of  the  geometric  properties  ap- 
propriate to  that  figure,  but  was  otherwise  in- 
distinguishable: the  Frenchman  was  in  bed.  I 
made  a  discourse  on  the  traditional  friendship  of 
our  two  countries  and  ordered  his  native  wife  to 
prepare  me  some  coffee.  The  sun  came  up  in  bar- 
baric splendor,  the  coffee  was  hot,  and  the  French- 
man sent  a  message  from  between  the  blankets, 
to  the  effect  that  he  had  always  esteemed  my 
country  highly  and  that  the  price  would  be  ten 
cents.  While  I  was  paying,  a  dishevelled  woman 
came  over  the  hill-top  of  the  square  like  a  blown 


IDOLS       OF    COPAN,    HONDURAS 


Riding  to  Salvador  115 

bush  before  a  tornado.  She  made  for  the  sol- 
diery, by  whom  she  was  instantly  enveloped.  Like 
flails  on  a  threshing  floor,  her  arms  waved  above 
the  encompassing  crowd.  She  was  In  tears  and 
in  anger.  May  classic  Castile  forgive  her  the 
jargon  she  was  talking!  I  understood  not  a 
single  word,  and  the  soldiers  would  not  tell  me 
what  she  said.  But  they  pacified  her;  and  she 
withdrew  like  a  burned-out  meteor  from  my 
horizon. 

It  was  time  to  start.  So  I  saddled  Colorada 
and,  after  replying  to  usual  enquiries  by  an  un- 
usually clear  explanation  of  a  New  York  office- 
building  and  a  rough  comparison  of  the  popula- 
tion of  that  city  and  Quesada,  I  rode  off  through 
the  fields  thankful  that  I  had  crossed  the  river  on 
the  previous  evening  ahead  of  the  heavy  rain. 

I  had  only  a  short  ride  before  me.  It  was  Sun- 
day, dedicate  to  God  and  brandy,  a  bad  day  for 
extensive  travel.  Wherefore  I  was  content  to 
reach  Jutiapa  before  noon  and  to  rest. 

As  I  entered  the  town  a  bare-foot  and  un-uni- 
formed  soldiery  was  returning  fromx  rifle-practice. 
Before  them,  like  a  wounded  comrade  upon  a 
stretcher,  the  painted  figure  of  a  wooden  man  was 
being  carried  back  in  triumph  to  the  dis-strains  of 
a  band.  Set  up  against  the  bleak  hillside,  he  had 
been  the  wretched  scapegoat  of  his  tribe.     Now 


ii6  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

even  in  death  his  bland  face  was  drawn  to  an  ar- 
chaic smile,  his  vapid  eyes  stared  patiently  to- 
ward heaven.  Poor  bullet-ridden  eidolon !  Did 
the  rifles  really  tremble  less  and  the  bullets  go 
straighter  because  that  ragged  soldiery  felt  the 
thrill  of  his  illusion  and  almost  could  make  itself 
believe  in  him  as  a  thing  of  blood  and  bone?  And 
what  greyest  remnant  of  savage  Baldur  or  Adonis 
was  there  in  that  processional  carrying-home  of 
the  god  whom  they  had  slain?  Was  there  none 
at  all,  just  because  they  were  themselves  aware  of 
none? 

It  was  the  feast  of  St.  Christopher.  From  the 
white-washed  church  came  a  strange  procession. 
Two  boys  in  brilliant  carmine  led  the  way  with 
cross  and  candlestick.  Behind  them  strode  ten 
knights,  fresh  from  the  fairyland  of  an  im- 
promptu pantomime.  Their  stockings  were  for- 
get-me-not pink-and-blue.  Cloth-of-gold  at  a 
penny  a  yard  made  brave  work  of  their  uppers. 
Their  heads  wore  pointed  magician-hats  set  with 
tiny  flashing  mirrors.  A  drum  and  one  fife  made 
music,  a  sort  of  Farmer  Helvig's  Spring-dance, 
whose  crudely  accentuated  beat  always  seemed 
(but  was  not)  out  of  rhythm.  The  ten  rem- 
nants of  chivalry  danced  with  crossing  of  brown 
feet  and  of  wooden  swords.  Behind  came  an 
armful  of  rockets,  whose  feeble  skyward  rush  was 


Riding  to  Salvador  117 

meant  to  enliven  every  halt.  Then  came  two 
festival  floats,  set-pieces  of  wire-frame  and  colour- 
ed paper,  mounted  on  kitchen  tables  whose  un- 
romantic  limbs  were  buried  in  artificial  flowers 
such  as  even  the  fertile  jungle-lands  could  never 
have  evolved.  The  superstructures  delved  in 
that  realm  of  childish  splendor  dear  to  the 
southern  Roman  Catholic  and  the  country- 
kitchens  of  our  chromolithographic  North.  One 
showed  St.  Christopher  with  pretty  Christchild 
on  his  shoulders,  fording  through  gigantic  bego- 
nias. The  other  was  a  waxen  saint  with  girlish 
mien  and  dresses.  Pink  and  blue  flowers  made 
her  paradise  and  supported  her  enthusiastic  motto, 
"Long  live  St.  Christopher!"  She  was  carried 
by  Indian  women,  and  a  little  girl  walked  beneath 
the  table,  as  though  under  a  flowering  canopy. 
The  rockets  blew  themselves  to  smoky  bits,  the 
fife  whistled  and  wheezed,  the  swords  clashed  in 
wooden  fervor  as  the  mimers  danced  their  stately 
step.  It  was  a  real  festival,  and  St.  Christopher 
could  not  have  helped  being  pleased. 

In  the  inn  doorway  I  found  a  demure  little 
three-year-old,  sitting  stark-naked  on  the  thresh- 
hold  and  dipping  his  fingers  into  a  large  plate  of 
black-bean  mush.  Some  vague  reminiscence  of 
Sartor  Resartus  suggested  the  young  Carlyle  with 
his  plate  of  porridge,  and  the  confusion  of  the 


ii8  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

two  pictures  was  so  ludicrous  that  the  little  fellow 
looked  up  with  a  puzzled  friendly  face  to  see  why 
the  stranger  was  laughing.  On  the  walls  of  the 
room  behind  him  were  some  frescoes  clearly  be- 
longing to  the  undiscovered  school  of  Guatemalan 
Primitives,  and  to  these  I  diverted  my  amuse- 
ment. But  the  woman  of  the  house  saw  only 
that  I  had  laughed  at  her  child  and  her  paintings, 
and  I  had  to  abandon  my  intellectualised  perver- 
sions to  make  my  peace  with  the  real  world  of 
human  things.  There  seems  to  be  nothing  so 
ubiquitously  rude  as  a  laugh  unshared  or  a  smile 
Inot  understood.  The  grave  unsmiling  savage  is 
well  on  his  way  toward  being  a  gentleman;  and  a 
sense  of  the  ludicrous  is  the  root  of  ill-breeding. 

Next  day  before  sunrise  I  started  on  the  last 
stretch  of  my  journey.  The  Indians  were  coming 
to  market,  stringing  out  across  the  almost  treeless 
plain.  All  had  the  one  question, — "How  is  the 
river?"  I  had  crossed  it  with  my  feet  tucked  up 
on  Colorada's  neck  and  having  managed  to  keep 
dry  could  not  help  being  optimistic.  Yet  it  must 
have  been  no  small  matter  for  the  old  women  with 
their  heavy  baskets  on  their  heads  to  wade 
through  the  swirl  of  the  rain-swollen  stream. 
But  if  I  lied  to  them,  I  lied  as  the  Spaniards  often 
do,  out  of  kindness  and  a  desire  to  please;  and 


Riding  to  Salvador  119 

for  that,  I  hope  they  left  the  stranger's  memory 
uncursed  when,  they  stepped  down  to  the  foam 
and  muddy  roar  of  their  dreaded  Tamasulapa. 

It  was  a  countryside  such  as  meets  one  every- 
where in  Greece, — a  stony  grey-green  plain  shut 
in  by  unforested  hills  with  a  merciless  splendor  of 
light  to  make  its  barrenness  attractive.  In  the 
dry  season  the  brown  earth  must  split  open  in 
numberless  cracks  and  the  dust  lie  like  a  desert- 
mantle  on  every  leaf  and  twig.  But  in  rainy 
August  it  was  almost  verdant.  The  air  was 
fresh  and  cool,  and  the  mist  travelled  along  the 
hill-tops  with  shadowy  promise  of  further  down- 
pour. 

It  was  a  long  and  steep  ascent,  past  some  fan- 
tastic rock-castles  of  century-long  erosion  not  un- 
like those  natural  towers  on  which  the  Thessalian 
monks  built  their  unapproachable  monasteries. 
At  the  top  of  the  ridge  there  were  trees  once  more 
and  glimpses  backward  over  the  wide  reaches  of 
upland  plain  and  lowland  jungle.  Then  came  a 
delightful  woodland  way,  level  and  wind-blown, 
and  a  zigzag  plunge  from  the  far-seeing  ridge 
down  to  a  town  buried  like  an  English  village  in 
the  shadow  of  immemorial  trees. 

I  found  a  girl  standing  in  an  open  doorway, 
and  persuaded  her  to  take  pity  on  my  hunger. 
Though  I  had  nothing  devised  upon  my  banner, 


I20  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

my  apprehension  of  the  shades  of  night  and  my 
eagerness  to  be  gone  reduced  our  behavior  to  the 
inanity  of  the  poem.  What  wonder  that  when 
the  maiden  actually  uttered  her  "Oh,  stay,  and 
rest,"  I  was  terribly  embarrassed  lest  my  bright 
blue  eye  should  continue  the  romantic  tradition? 
However,  we  fell  to  arguing,  myself  insisting  that 
I  must  cross  the  frontier  before  nightfall  and  she 
maintaining  that  it  was  not  possible  to  ride  twenty- 
five  miles  that  afternoon.  She  was  wrong  in  that, 
and  I  should  have  proved  her  so,  had  it  not  been 
that  a  black  storm  came  over  the  hill-tops  at  three 
o'clock  and  blustered  me  into  putting  up  for  the 
night  in  the  shabbiest  little  border-village  that  ever 
crept  upon  a  map.  I  translated  my  passport  with 
appropriate  grandiloquence  to  the  commandant  of 
the  lounging  barefoot  soldiery  and  received  his 
permission  to  do  what  I  liked.  I  soon  found 
that  this  was  an  inexpensive  generosity,  and  that 
the  sheik  had  presented  me  with  the  freedom  of 
the  desert.  My  dinner  was  the  eternal  triad, — 
black  beans,  tortillas,  and  coffee.  My  bed  was 
an  unyoked  ox-cart  in  the  village  square.  Two 
wandering  Indians  whom  I  had  overtaken  and  left 
behind  in  the  early  afternoon  arrived  at  nightfall, 
and,  building  a  tiny  fire  beside  me,  cooked  a  pinch 
of  coffee  in  a  little  tin  from  their  pack.  From 
the   same   source   appeared  cold   tortillas   to   be 


Riding  to  Salvador  121 

toasted  on  sticks.  When  the  little  blaze  had 
smouldered  and  died,  they  rolled  up  in  their 
blankets  and  slept  on  the  ground.  Food  and 
sleep  were  to  them  an  emotionless  ritual,  per- 
formed with  the  silent  vast  intensity  of  the  pyra- 
mids of  Gizeh.  Beneath  my  cart  a  sow  took 
quarter  for  the  night  until  I  disputed  with  her  the 
justness  of  her  assumed  prerogative  of  using  my 
bed  for  a  scratching-post.  One  cannot  sleep 
through  quakes,  be  they  volcanic  or  merely  suil- 
line. 

It  was  a  night  of  brilliant  stars.  In  the  half- 
illumination  of  the  midnight  sky  the  black  cone 
of  Chingo  stood  above  me,  fit  staging  for  a  phan- 
tom play.  The  warm  air  was  vaguely  sweet 
with  tropic  perfume.  To  drift  off  into  slumber 
in  such  a  world  was  a  touch  of  Elysian  content. 

Was  it  not  a  retired  seaman  who  gave  orders 
to  be  roused  in  the  early  morning  with  the  mes- 
sage that  the  admiral  desired  his  presence?  So 
much  more  did  he  relish  his  protracted  slumber 
when  after  his  invariable  "Tell  the  admiral  to  go 
to  Hell,"  he  sank  back  between  the  covers!  I 
had  the  same  delicious  sense  of  slumbering  off  a 
dozen  times  into  the  tropic  night,  only  to  be 
snatched  back  into  the  unpleasantness  of  the  con- 
scious world.  For  a  dozen  people  passed  along 
the  road  from  the  frontier.     The  dogs  barked, 


122  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

first  in  the  distance,  then  close  at  hand.  Finally 
a  black  shadow  stole  across  the  open.  Thereat 
a  soldier,  idling  under  cover  at  the  opposite  side 
of  the  square,  emitted  a  bawl  that  must  have  been 
audible  half  a  mile  away.  The  bamboos  heard  it, 
the  prowlers  drinking  at  the  midnight  stream 
heard  it,  the  great  trees  tried  to  stifle  it,  the  hill- 
cHffs  re-echoed  it;  how  much  more  did  I  on  my  ox- 
cart and  Colorada  at  her  hitching-post  suffer  from 
that  interminable  sentence  which  involved  inter^ 
alia  an  exhortation  not  to  go  further,  a  command 
to  traverse  the  square,  and  an  intimation  that  the 
commandant's  representative  would  be  interested 
in  inspecting  the  traveller's  papers!  ...  all  be- 
cause a  soldier  was  too  lazy  to  cross  the  square 
and  stand  guard  on  the  road-side. 

I  was  content  to  leave  before  dawn  and  to  con- 
tinue down  the  narrow  stream  which  had  brought 
me  out  of  the  highlands.  In  and  out  of  its  bed 
we  splashed.  "And  when  you  have  crossed  it  the 
third  time,"  had  said  the  owner  of  my  night's 
lodging-place,  "you  will  be  in  Salvador."  It  was 
like  the  brooks  in  Looking-glass  Land,  where  an 
action  apparently  quite  trivial  and  irrelevant  was 
followed  by  momentous  consequences.   .   .  . 

So  I  was  in  Salvador  I  And  this  was  no  longer 
Guatemala,  this  rocky  path  and  washed-out  track, 


Riding  to  Salvador  123 

or  this  familiar  mud  through  which  we  flounder- 
ed !  Yet  it  looked  the  same  for  a  while.  But  at 
length  I  came  out  on  green  treeless  hillocks,  dead 
volcanoes  clothed  in  emerald,  so  smooth  of  slope 
that  one  could  wish  to  see  a  gigantic  hand  reach 
out  to  stroke  that  shimmering  velvet.  It  is  an 
effect  peculiar  to  volcanic  regions.  The  Alban 
hills  near  Rome  have  a  little  of  it;  and  there  is  a 
hint  of  it  around  Naples.  But  Italy  is  too  dry 
and  arid  to  give  those  slopes  their  proper  green. 
In  Salvador  it  makes  an  unending  pastoral  tran- 
quillity. I  knew  indeed  that  I  was  in  another 
land. 

By  eleven  in  the  morning  I  had  ridden  twenty- 
five  miles  despite  of  some  of  the  most  distress- 
ing mud  that  Colorada's  flanks  had  yet  encounter- 
ed; and  I  was  back  once  more  among  streets  and 
houses,  where  there  were  people  who  had  seen 
London  and  Paris,  who  knew  that  Europe  had 
been  at  war  and  could  feel  the  pity  of  it.  For  the 
first  time,  Colorada  lived  in  a  real  hotel  and  was 
waited  on  by  other  menials  than  her  master.  The 
town  was  Santa  Ana,  and  there  for  the  first  time 
in  many  weeks  I  looked  on  the  face  of  someone 
whom  I  could  call  a  friend,  a  fellow-being  in  the 
same  ancient  Aryan  civilisation  in  which  mules 
and  Mayas  have  no  share. 


CHAPTER  V 

DON  QUIXOTE'S  RANCH 

It  is  only  another  instance  of  man's  inveter- 
ate self-complacency  that  he  cheats  the  powers  of 
darkness  by  claiming  rest  for  Paradise  and  yet 
calling  unrest  divine.  For  my  own  part,  in  Sal- 
vador I  was  more  inclined  to  credit  Satan  with 
the  invention  of  both;  for  while  I  thought  that 
travel  was  diabolic,  I  found  inactivity  to  be  the 
very  devil.  Colorada  fattened  in  her  stall,  as 
though  her  indifferent  ears  heard  no  far  blowing 
of  mountain-winds  and  singing  of  woodland  birds. 
For  hers  was  a  wooden  and  unregenerate  soul; 
and  I  have  little  doubt  that  in  her  next  incarna- 
tion she  will  be  a  fencepost.  But  to  me  the  days 
brought  only  uneasiness.  Beyond  the  town  roofs 
I  could  see  the  hills,  and  I  would  think  of  the 
rocks  and  woods  where  ran  the  trails — places  of 
birds  and  shadows  and  hilltop  views.  One  after- 
noon suddenly  I  saddled  Colorada  and  rode  away. 

Heading  north  on  the  highroad,  we  came  near 
sunset  to  a  village  without  an  inn.  In  the  local 
providence  there  was  no  provision  for  strangers; 

124 


Don  Quixote's  Ranch  125 

but  I  found  an  old  couple  who  were  willing  to  re- 
ceive that  ill-assorted  pair  of  fellow-travellers,  an 
American  man  and  a  Guatemalan  mule.  Of  the 
two,  the  American  was  the  better-bred;  for  the 
Guatemalan  broke  at  midnight  from  her  tether 
and  allayed  her  curiosity  with  an  inspection  of  the 
town.  I  guarantee  that  she  found  nothing  to  re- 
ward her  ambulations  and  that  I  learned  as  much 
as  she  by  lying  on  a  cot  and  listening  to  two  old 
men  mourn  for  the  golden  past, 

"What  young  man  is  there  to-day,"  said  one, 
"to  whom  you  could  point  as  representing  the  old 
manhood  of  Teixistepeque?     Not  one!" 

"It  is  all  gone,"  said  the  other,  "morality,  hon- 
esty. Industry!  The  young  men — what  are  they? 
Shiftless,  unthinking,  good-for-nothing." 

"It  did  not  use  to  be  so,"  said  the  former. 
"Teixistepeque  in  our  day — that  was  a  village! 
A  bit  of  the  true  Salvador,  the  free  Salvador! 
The  world  is  growing  evil." 

"Yes,  the  world  is  growing  evil.  The  men  of 
to-day  .  .   ." 

The  old  illusion ! 

I  was  tempted  to  tell  them  what  their  next  sen- 
tence was  to  be.  (It  is  all  written  out  in  Greek 
and  Latin  books  of  two  thousand  years  ago.) 
But  the  prophecy  would  have  failed;  for  a  young 
boy  and  a  girl  entered  the  house  at  that  moment, 


126  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

and  the  cheerfulness  of  youth  cut  short  the  grey- 
beards' threnody.  The  whole  party  fell  to  telling 
marvellous  fables,  amid  whose  unimaginative  and 
preposterous  involutions  my  sleepy  senses  soon 
lost  themselves,  to  slip  from  a  candle-lit  peasant- 
room  into  a  blessed  land  void  of  Spanish  words  or 
Indians  or  twelve-league  rides  to  dirty  towns. 
But  at  daybreak  I  woke  to  all  of  these. 

The  old  man  went  to  his  work  in  the  fields 
in  the  cold  mist  of  sunless  glimmer  and  the  old 
woman  made  me  coffee.  I  saddled  Colorada  and 
set  out.  From  a  cool  and  sleepy  road  of  trees 
the  path  emerged  into  the  open  among  volcanic 
mounds  and  grassy  cones.  Grazing  horses  stood 
out  like  phantom  mares  on  the  strangely  peaked 
sky-line  above.  The  ride  promised  to  be  interest- 
ing. But  volcanoes  and  horses  were  left  behind, 
the  air  lost  its  morning  freshness,  and  the  path 
led  for  hours  through  hot  open  country.  Except 
for  occasional  strings  of  mules,  heavy-laden  and 
despondent,  coming  down  to  Santa  Ana  from  the 
mines  of  the  hill-country  beyond,  there  was  nothing 
of  interest  except  a  great  lake  whose  windless 
silver  stretched  off  to  the  low  ranges  of  the  Guate- 
malan frontier.  Then  came  the  roaring  of  a 
river,  which  Colorada  heeded  less  than  L  Little 
did  she  know  in  her  mulish  innocence  that  the  river 
which  she  had  twice  crossed  at  Jutiapa  on  her  way 


THE    THICKET,    QUIRIGUA 


Don  Quixote's  Ranch  127 

to  Salvador  had  swung  north  to  Intercept  her  once 
again,  swollen  now  by  all  the  streams  of  the 
Jalapa  highlands.  Mules  do  not  cross  rivers 
until  they  come  to  them  (nor  always  even  then), 
and  I  envied  Colorada's  indifference  to  the  roar 
of  the  white  rapids  beside  which  we  rode.  In  the 
end  there  was  (as  though  by  miracle)  a  bridge  of 
solid  stone,  luxury  undreamed,  deus  ex  machina  to 
our  little  difficulties. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  bridge  the  road  at  once 
entered  deep  forest  filled  with  tropical  growth  and 
life.  The  path  was  a-flutter  with  brilliant  butter- 
flies, and  there  were  lizards  galore  and  new  kinds 
of  birds.  Colorada,  the  unaesthetic,  noticed  only 
that  she  had  become  the  sudden  prey  of  huge  flies 
which  I  slaughtered  assiduously  on  her  bleeding 
neck  and  flanks.  But  the  swarms,  like  all  else, 
passed,  and  we  emerged  from  the  deep  wonder- 
land to  catch  sight  of  the  broken  cone  of  an  old 
volcano  and  a  succession  of  sunken  lakes,  dead 
craters  rain-filled  and  edged  with  trees.  Beyond 
a  larger  lake  we  shortly  came  to  the  town  of 
Metapan,  and  there  I  lunched,  and  Idled  away  the 
remnants  of  the  hot  and  radiant  afternoon. 

When  I  stole  out  In  the  grey  dawn,  next  morn- 
ing, I  left  the  Inn  unobserved  and  unspeeded;  but 
Colorada,  unsusceptible  to  furtive  as  to  other 
emotions,  transformed  tIp-toeIng  to  a  clatter  of 


128  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

hoofs  upon  the  deserted  streets.  In  the  village 
square  a  dreamy  sentinel  blinked  at  me  without 
comment;  the  clock  in  a  square  tower  (built 
placidly  in  front  of  the  very  center  of  the  church- 
door)  struck  the  half-hour;  a  lonely  figure  dodged 
across  the  streets  ahead  of  me  and  slipped  like  a 
shadow  through  a  dark  doorway.  Mist  swam  in 
the  leaves  of  the  great  trees  and  blurred  the  red 
ridges  of  the  roofs.  There  was  no  wind  and 
little  light.  The  town  seemed  a  graveyard.  But 
Colorada,  being  void  of  apprehensions,  communi- 
cated her  indifference  to  me.  Without  haste  we 
passed  out  into  a  countryside  of  dripping  thickets. 
A  misty  range  of  eastern  mountains  flanked  us 
like  a  wall,  over  which  there  shortly  appeared  the 
red  face  of  the  sun.  Across  these  ridges  lay  my 
day's  journey;  but  as  the  crests  seemed  more  than 
three  thousand  feet  above,  I  had  little  hope  of 
riding  the  needful  forty  miles  through  that 
bristling  land.  An  arch  Ionian  pessimist  once 
hailed  Thasos  with  much  the  same  despair, — 

"Like  a  donkey's  spine  it  stands 

Abristle  with  savage  wood." 

I  have  never  seen  a  desert-mirage,  that  shifting 
city  of  pinnacles  and  minarets  whose  margin 
fades;  but  I  have  learned  to  appreciate  the  baffled 
temper  of  the  caravans.     Riding  for  Esquipulas, 


Don  Quixote's  Ranch  129 

I  interrogated  man,  woman,  and  child,  always 
with  the  one  question  of  distance  yet  to  go.  I 
felt  toward  their  answers  as  the  Hellenes  to  the 
Thracian  tongue:  "  'Tis  the  chitter  of  swallows," 
said  those  good-natured  and  contemptuous  speak- 
ers of  Greek.  And  chitter  of  swallows  might 
have  been  those  answers  along  the  road. 

"It  is  ninety  miles,"  said  one,  "and  you  will  be 
there  to-morrow  night." 

"Over  those  hills,"  said  another,  "and  then  it 
is  only  a  short  piece  to  ride." 

At  times  I  was  a  dozen  leagues  from  my  goal, 
only  to  hear  of  it  floating  behind  the  nearest 
woods.  Toward  noon  I  became  interested  in  the 
town  of  Concepcion.  When  it  actually  came  into 
view  among  the  trees,  a  real  human  village  shut 
in  with  the  homely  sound  of  running  water,  I  felt 
that  I  had  performed  as  impossible  a  feat  as 
though  I  had  stumbled  upon  the  rainbow's  pot-of- 
gold.  Pot-of-earth,  it  seemed,  there  was  none; 
for  I  could  find  nothing  cooking  on  the  hearths 
of  the  villagers,  and  rode  on  in  my  chimeric 
search  for  Esquipulas.  It  was  a  district  of  mines, 
upland  ventures  of  foreign  capital  scarring  the 
'hills  with  the  marks  of  that  one  quest  which  all 
mankind  can  understand.  I  had  expected  to  run 
into  countrymen  of  my  own;  but  the  mines  lay  off 
the  main  track  and  my  day's  goal  was  nebulous 


130  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

still.  On  those  high  hills  of  the  gods,  the  shirt- 
sleeved  young  engineers  curse  the  tropics  and 
their  loneliness,  reviling  the  shiftless  race  whose 
labor  will  not  serve.  Not  for  them  are  the  great 
shadows  above  clear  streams  in  those  wild  valleys, 
the  broken  falls  of  sheer  earth  above  them,  and 
from  colored  ridges  the  far  views  toward  volcano- 
crowned  horizons.  God,  it  seems,  made  the  world 
to  be  lived  in,  not  to  be  looked  at.  So  the  Indians 
sweat  or  lie  indolent;  the  white  men  drink  away 
the  damnable  solitude;  the  trees  and  flowers  grow 
and  die  under  blowing  winds  and  falling  rains; 
and  only  the  sentimental  journeyers  delude  them- 
selves with  empty  contemplation. 

It  was  late  afternoon.  From  water-eaten 
ridges  I  slid  into  a  new  valley  and  rode  out  on  a 
high  tongue  of  land.  To  right  and  left  the 
ground  fell  away  into  deepening  gullies  that  led 
to  the  broad  green  valley-plain  beyond;  but  my 
path  kept  level  as  though  on  an  earth-built  cause- 
way into  space.  In  all  the  land  beneath,  there 
was  no  town.  Esquipulas,  the  Mecca  of  New 
Spain,  seemed  as  elusive  amid  these  hills  as  ever 
the  Grail-castle  was  to  the  questing  knights.  I 
wondered  what  I  had  come  to  see,  whether  the 
Black  Christ  and  the  shining  towers  were  not  a 
new-world  phantasy  of  pious  minds;  and  while  I 
wondered,  suddenly  there  was  the  town  at  my 


Don  Quixote's  Ranch  131 

feet,  red  rambling  roofs  in  a  long  straight  line  and 
the  yellow  dome  and  white  walls  of  a  great  church, 
conspicuous  and  splendid,  like  the  clustered  build- 
ings of  a  lonely  lighthouse  in  the  grey-purple 
sea  of  waning  day. 

The  artist  chooses  at  pleasure  from  the  world 
of  his  experience,  wise  in  his  eliminations.  If 
only  Memory  were  an  artist,  too !  Our  past 
might  be  like  a  pleasant  landscape;  our  friends, 
portraits;  our  disillusions  dropped  from  the  can- 
vas. Then  Esquipulas  would  have  been  only  that 
company  of  red  roofs  marching  to  a  white-tower- 
ed temple,  toward  which  I  descended  in  a  sheer 
plunge  from  a  sunset  ridge  into  the  gathering 
dusk  of  the  valley-floor.  But  the  spirit  of  re- 
membrance is  a  cross-grained  and  malicious  demon 
with  little  sense  of  form,  content  to  jumble  to- 
gether all  the  arbitrary  and  distorted  elements 
which  he  chooses  to  find  significant.  Esquipulas, 
thanks  to  that  Mephistophelian  spirit,  is  for  me 
a  futurist  composition,  wherein  are  thrown  inter 
alia  an  earnest  woman,  pineapples,  a  red  tin-flag 
in  front  of  a  butcher-shop,  the  cracked  keystone  of 
a  bridge,  five  naked  children  sitting  in  the  gutter, 
an  open  bake-oven  glowing  and  crackling,  an  In- 
dian spitting,  five  brandy-booths,  an  enormous 
armful  of  mule-fodder,  a  raw  egg  without  cup  or 
spoon,  and  a  row  of  nettles  waving  in  the  moon- 


132  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

light.     And  what  can  a  writer  do  with  such  a 

memory,  or  such  a  world? 
******  ♦ 

There  was  no  inn  in  Esquipulas.  By  advice  of 
the  soldiery  I  begged  for  quarters  from  a  pious 
widow,  and  was  given  stable-room  for  Colorada 
and  not  unsimilar  lodging  for  myself.  Walls,  a 
ceiling,  a  floor;  these  the  room  had.  But  I  felt 
that  it  had  acquired  those  members  e  definitione 
rather  than  by  any  active  interest  of  its  own. 
Luckily  there  was  a  cot  available.  Food  there 
was  none  for  man  or  beast;  but  I  soon  came  back 
somewhat  as  Macduff's  soldiery  from  Burnham 
wood,  looking  like  a  moving  corn-field  of  green 
stalks.  For  my  own  consolation  I  ended  up  in  the 
back  of  a  wretched  brandy-shop  where  I  ate  black- 
beans  and  tortillas  by  shifting  candlelight  in  a 
sooty  bake-room  which  might  have  been  a  char- 
coal-burner's dream  of  the  Inferno.  There  I  was 
pestered  by  the  sore-eared  carcass  of  a  dog  more 
hungry  even  than  myself,  and  annoyed  by  fhe 
proximity  of  women  whose  clothes  seemed  to  be 
rotting  on  their  backs.  Nor  is  the  picture  over- 
drawn. 

On  my  return  to  the  house  the  widow  was 
waiting. 

"One  question,"  said  she. 

And  when  I  had  expressed  my  readiness,  "I 


Don  Quixote's  Ranch  133 

am  religious,"  she  said;  "but  what  about  you?" 
Now,  I  never  answer  that  question  very  bril- 
liantly. Perhaps  I  suspect  it  of  belligerency.  I 
hold  that  it  should  be  marked  "Beware  of  the 
Badger!"  However,  that  evening  I  was  re- 
ligious too;  and  all  went  well  until,  in  an  un- 
guarded moment,  I  admitted  my  Protestantism. 
Then  came  storm.  For  half  an  hour  I  swallowed 
dogma,  denied  heresy,  and  acclaimed  all  the  saints 
in  general,  but  most  especially  Our  Lord  of 
Esquipulas,  for  whom  I  evolved  a  considerable 
enthusiasm.  When  a  man  has  ridden  a  mule 
close  on  fifty  miles  he  may  be  permitted  a  con- 
version to  Baal  or  Moloch  if  they  be  masters  of 
his  bed  and  blankets.  (Primitive  religion  is 
rather  of  that  sort  anyway,  and  a  tired  man  is 
apt  to  be  primitive.) 

Mollified,  but  only  half  content,  the  local 
champion  of  Catholicism  allowed  me  to  remain 
beneath  her  roof.  But  the  ordeal  continued,  as 
she  proceeded  to  be  religious  in  a  neighboring 
room  and  involved  the  rest  of  her  household  in 
song.  Now,  it  is  a  strange  thing  that  we  forgive 
Nature  for  being  out  of  pitch,  but  not  mankind. 
A  flatted  piety  brings  only  its  author  nearer  God. 
The  civilized  world  must  have  its  religion  and  its 
esthetics  concordant;  and  it  is  generally  only 
serving-maids  and  men-of-business  who  can  fall 


134  l'^^  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

victim  to  the  unsensitive  tactics  of  revivalism. 
But  I  was  patient.  Next  morning  the  widow 
came  again,  to  announce  that  I  could  not  remain, 
since  her  house  was  for  Catholics  and  not  for 
heretics. 

I  was  tired  of  the  whole  dispute. 

"One  question,"  said  I,  and  like  herself  on  the 
previous  evening  proceeded  to  ask  a  number. 

"Have  you  been  to  Rome  where  the  pilgrims 
go?     No?     /  have  been  to  Rome. 

"Have  you  seen  the  great  church  where  the 
Pope  lives?     No?     /  have  seen  that  church. 

"Have  you  seen  the  Pope,  God's  vicar  here  on 
earth?     No?     /  have  seen  God's  vicar. 

"I  am  a  holy  man,"  I  said;  and  left  her. 

When  I  returned  an  hour  later,  I  found  that  a 
chair  had  been  added  to  the  furnishings  of  my 
room. 

T»  ^  3(C  3fC  3|C  3fC  9|C 

Mecca  of  Spanish  America,  shrine  of  the  black 
image  of  Christ,  town  of  the  January  pilgrims 
encamped  around  the  white  walls  and  yellow 
dome  of  a  great  and  solitary  church, — small  won- 
der that  I  was  eager  to  come  there  and  to  see  it 
with  my  own  eyes.  In  the  daylight  I  found  half 
a  mile  of  straight  street,  lined  with  low  houses  of 
stuccoed  mud.  Three  squatting  Indians  were  sell- 
ing pineapples.     They  named  their  price  in  silver 


Don  Quixote's  Ranch  135 

of  Salvador,  I  agreed  in  currency  of  Guatemala, 
and  paid  them  with  Honduranian  coin,  leaving 
the  three  of  them  in  helpless  dispute.  The  first 
maintained  that  I  had  cheated  them,  the  second 
that  they  had  cheated  me,  the  third  that  neither 
had  cheated  the  other.  (This  last  was  clearly  a 
pessimist  confirmed.)  But  as  they  had  dedicated 
their  lives  to  reconciling  these  three  currencies,  I 
felt  that  an  outsider  could  teach  them  nothing, 
clutched  my  pineapples,  and  went  to  explore  the 
church.  There  it  stood,  white  and  high  at  the 
end  of  the  vista  of  straight  street  and  dirty 
house-fronts,  with  a  tower-flanked  fagade  whose 
receding  stages  recalled  the  peaked  front  of  Dutch 
houses  in  spite  of  the  inevitable  classic  orders 
and  baroque  scrolls  of  the  Spanish  tradition.  The 
four  corner-towers  themselves  in  receding  stories, 
passed  from  square  through  octagon  to  a  tiny 
crowning  cupola.  In  the  center  was  a  dome 
covered  with  lemon-coloured  tile.  For  the  rest, 
every  inch  had  been  whitewashed  with  such  ardor 
that  the  saints  in  their  niches  were  bundled  up  in 
a  dozen  coats  of  paint  and  looked  like  dough- 
sculpture  floured  and  ready  for  the  Christmas 
oven. 

Before  the  entrance  was  a  platform  of  red 
brick,  and  there  on  every  tile  pious  pilgrims  had 
scratched  the  outline  of  their  soles.     Large  feet 


136  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

and  small,  initialed  or  uncommented,  they  were 
there  by  the  hundreds,  footprints  of  those  that 
had  stood  at  the  door  of  our  black  Lord  of  Esqui- 
pulas, 

I  entered,  to  find  the  interior  large  and  bare. 
Whitewashed  piers  carried  the  usual  barrel-vault 
of  the  nave.  At  the  crossing  the  cupola  broke  the 
dull  and  heavy  ceiling-lines  with  pierced  drum  and 
with  painted  evangelists  on  the  four  pendentives. 
The  floor  was  of  red  brick  tile  and  innocent  of 
bench  or  chair  or  any  encumbrance  of  comfort. 
Paintings  hung  on  the  piers  of  the  nave  and  gaudy 
paper  flags  from  the  impost-cornice  above. 
Along  the  side  walls  stretched  a  line  of  gilded 
tabernacles  for  the  gentle  and  highly  colored 
waxen  saints.    The  rest  was  whitewash. 

Yet  when  the  Indian  women  knelt  on  the 
bare  floor  with  their  bright  shawls  across  their 
shoulders  and  beyond  them  the  acolytes  in  red 
waved  the  incense,  though  the  dimmest  eye  would 
have  been  outraged  by  the  colours  and  the  dullest 
ear  by  the  sounds,  there  was  something  in  the 
strange  blending  of  emotions  to  mark  and  to  re- 
member. The  sacring-bell  rang,  an  altar-shade 
rolled  up,  and  there  behind  glass  was  the  Black 
Image,  for  native  eyes  so  miraculous,  so  sacro- 
sanct, so  mystical,  the  tremor  of  whose  presence 


Don  Quixote's  Ranch  137 

ran  visibly  through  the  brilliant  shawls  of  the 
kneeling  women.  Whitewash  and  tinsel, — tinsel 
and  whitewash :  yet  I  am  half-ready  to  believe  that 
our  Lord  of  Esquipulas  can  in  truth  work  his 
miracles  there. 

Nevertheless,  his  fame  and  his  power  are 
slowly  fading.  There  is  still  fiesta  from  New 
Year's  to  Mid-January;  but  the  crowds,  they  say, 
are  less,  and  the  great  floor  no  longer  seethes  with 
worshippers  coming  and  going.  In  mid-summer 
when  I  saw  It,  the  long  street  of  houses,  beginning 
with  its  brandy-shops,  stretched  desolately  away 
from  the  steps  of  the  church.  A  cynic  might 
claim  that  there  was  still  ample  spiritual  elation; 
but  a  handful  of  drunken  go-to-meeting  Indians  Is 
a  poor  substitute  for  the  festivals  that  once  were 
held  when  the  Black  Christ  of  Esquipulas  gathered 
his  pilgrims  from  furthest  Mexico  and  Panama. 

In  the  course  of  the  day.  In  a  little  church,  I 
found  a  legend  stencilled  on  linen,  setting  forth 
In  gruesome  detail  the  anti-Catholic  laws  In  force 
in  England  "since  1535."  Those  old  religious 
persecutions  make  sorry  reading;  but  what  of  a 
priesthood  of  to-day  that  uses  such  means  to  de- 
fame an  opposing  creed?  No  doubt,  then,  the 
widow  was  persuaded  that  I,  on  my  native  soil, 
turned    my    energies    to    fining,    whipping,    and 


138  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

quartering  loyal  Catholics ;  and  does  it  not  speak 
for  her  hospitality  that  I  was  not  secretly  mur- 
dered during  the  night? 

Murdered,  however,  I  was  not;  and  next  morn- 
ing by  candle-light  I  stumbled  upon  Colorada 
sleeping  on  her  side.  By  candle-light  she  ate  her 
dried  corn  and  by  candle-light  she  was  saddled 
and  exhorted.  I  pushed  the  house-door  wide  and 
rode  into  the  empty  village-street.  The  first 
dawn  explored  the  chinks  between  the  paving- 
stones  and  felt  with  forlorn  fingers  for  the  dirty 
walls  of  the  houses.  Outside  of  the  town  it  was 
not  better.  Water  oozed  on  the  meadows  and 
the  damp  wind  blew  fog-wisps  in  dreary  dances. 
But  after  a  time  came  sunrise  ahead  over  ragged 
hills,  bloody  and  barbaric  as  blowing  trumpets; 
and  behind,  across  the  plain,  the  white  towers  of 
our  Lord  of  Esquipulas  slowly  grew  out  into  the 
commonplace  of  day. 

There  seemed  to  be  little  or  no  path.  Some 
cowherds  offered  me  fresh  milk  and  gave  me  in- 
structions. For  a  while  a  little  barefooted  half- 
breed  trotted  along  ahead  of  me,  the  only  guide 
whom  I  ever  persuaded  into  my  service  in  Guate- 
mala. There  were  frequent  streams,  all  moving 
across  my  way  to  reach  the  River  Lempa  on  its 
southward  course  through  Salvador  to  the  Pacific. 
By  mid-morning  I  reached  the  hills  and  crossed 


Don  Quixote's  Ranch  139 

the  low  watershed  of  the  continent  into  a  wild 
steep  valley  where  all  the  waters  turned  to  the 
other  ocean.  Beyond  were  the  blue  frontier  hills 
of  Honduras. 

It  was  a  scene  full  of  unfriendliness.  Around 
me  were  low  ridges,  bristly  and  unkempt.  The 
path  slipped  down  the  steep  valley-head  in  rocky 
zigzags  over  the  stony  shelves  of  pine  to  the  more 
fertile  shadows  of  the  bed  below.  Here  and 
there  I  thought  that  I  could  distinguish  the  thatch 
of  a  hut;  but  there  was  no  other  sign  of  life.  Of 
birds  and  beasts  there  were  none.  I  could  look 
down  the  long  valley  to  the  near  forests  of  green 
and  the  far  hills  of  blue  and  know  that  no  one 
would  see  us  nor  tend  us  nor  feed  us  as  we  wan- 
dered our  twenty  remaining  miles  to  the  village  of 
Copan.  Honduras  seemed  a  true  land  of  the  free 
in  which  the  individual  is  at  liberty  to  go  where  he 
likes,  without  guide  or  path,  to  sleep  in  the  open, 
starve  without  hindrance,  and  lose  his  way  without 
help.  For  once  I  was  utterly  my  own  master. 
What  wonder  that  I  twice  missed  my  way  and  all 
that  day  had  nothing  to  eat?  As  I  rode  down- 
stream I  sank  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  low- 
lands. The  trees  grew  higher,  the  underbush 
grew  thicker,  till  I  could  no  longer  see  beyond  my 
immediate  path.  Losing  the  track  I  rode  aimless 
trails;  but  in  the  end  I  reached  the  right  ford  of 


I40  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

the  right  river,  and  crossed  with  the  swift  water 
up  to  the  saddle,  only  to  find  a  blank  hedge  of 
jungle  beyond  the  pebbled  shore.  Peasant  piety 
in  European  lands  is  glad  to  credit  the  devil  with 
all  that  is  unusual  in  nature;  but  there  is  nothing 
truly  diabolic  in  Devil's  Bridges  and  Witches' 
Kitchens.  They  lack  that  sinister  touch  of  the 
intellectual,  that  malicious  and  painstaking  be- 
devilment  which  is  the  true  caste  of  Mephisto. 
Not  so  a  re-entrant  ford  of  a  flooded  stream. 
The  trick  is  apparent — a  ricoche  from  bank  to 
island  and  island  to  bank  will  carry  one  upstream 
or  down  in  zigzag  progression.  But  from  where 
I  stood  I  could  see  a  foaming  shingle  above  me 
and  another  one  below,  and  there  was  nothing  to 
tell  me  which  to  choose.  The  high  water  had 
washed  away  all  earlier  hoof-marks,  and  it  was 
soon  apparent  that  no  one  but  myself  had  crossed 
the  river  that  day.  The  jungle  screen  was  placid 
and  without  expression,  ready  to  crowd  me  off  into 
deep  water. 

Since  my  map  told  me  nothing  I  chose  at 
random  and  crossed  an  arm  of  the  stream  to 
the  island  above;  and  there  found  track  of  hoofs. 
Recrossing  from  the  upper  end  of  the  shingle  to 
the  mouth  of  a  tributary  stream,  here  and  there 
on  a  shallow  or  shelf  of  sand  I  found  the  same 
hoofmarks  leading  inland,  and  judged  that  in  dry 


Don  Quixote's  Ranch  141 

weather  the  path  ran  where  now  the  red  mud 
swirled.  But  I  met  no  one  until  the  path  emerged 
from  the  stream  and  struck  through  thick  bush  to 
a  little  clearing.  There  I  learned  that  the  true 
passage  of  the  ford  was  downstream;  and  back  I 
rode  down  the  swirl  of  red  water,  to  do  four  zig- 
zag river-crossings  before  I  reached  the  road  at 
last. 

It  reads  quietly  and  pleasantly;  but  the  little 
drama  does  not  act  so  well.  We  of  the  North, 
for  example,  never  understand  why  the  Sicilian 
Greeks  used  to  engrave  a  man-headed  bull  on  their 
coins  when  they  wished  to  represent  a  river.  To 
be  sure,  a  bull  roars  and  plunges  and  destroys;  but 
we  do  not  guess  how  that  grey  trickle  through  a 
bed  of  stones  which  so  disappointed  us  in  our  visit 
to  classic  lands  can  do  the  same.  Overnight  it 
may  change  to  a  red  and  raging  animal  that  foams 
and  bellows. 

At  one  point  Colorada  was  swept  off  her  feet; 
but  though  she  lost  her  bodily,  she  kept  her 
mental  poise,  and  came  bravely  ashore  under  wet 
saddle  and  saddle-bags  with  blowing  nostrils  and 
a  wondering  eye. 

We  had  lost  our  chance  of  reaching  Copan. 
Instead,  after  half  an  hour,  coming  out  on  a  large 
lonely  rancho,  I  turned  in  and  applied  for  shelter. 
The  women-folk  received  me  hospitably  and  gave 


142  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

me  black  beans  and  tortillas  with  the  usual  ex- 
planation that  there  was  nothing  else  in  the  house. 
They  themselves,  as  far  as  I  saw,  ate  nothing. 

At  sunset  the  ranchero  appeared,  a  gaunt,  grim, 
bespectacled  old  man  riding  a  gaunt  grim  steed. 
His  head  was  wrapped  voluminously  in  a  large 
towel.  He  rode  slowly,  like  one  in  a  dream, 
without  evident  aim  or  interest.  Seeing  me,  he 
greeted  me  with  courtesy,  but  paid  me  no  further 
attention.  Afoot,  he  moved  like  a  lank  ghost:  I 
looked  to  see  whether  there  was  flesh  beneath 
that  turban  towel.  He  entered  and  I  did  not  see 
him  again  that  evening;  but  in  the  early  dawn  he 
rode  off  with  the  same  swaying  listless  motion,  his 
head  wrapped  in  the  towel,  and  disappeared  slowly 
into  the  deep  woods. 

The  whole  farm  was  Quixotic.  The  large 
empty  house,  the  aimless  inmates  who  neither 
toiled  nor  fed,  the  absence  of  any  apparent  means 
of  livelihood  gave  an  eerie  impression  of  desola- 
tion and  self-forgetfulness.  There  were  no 
children  in  the  house;  and  when  I  asked  the 
women  I  learned  that  the  old  knight-of-the-towel 
was  the  last  of  his  line.  Owning  large  stretches 
of  land  which  he  could  not  cultivate  and  cattle 
which  he  could  not  tend,  he  saw  himself  growing 
old  and  feeble  and  the  great  farm  gradually  dying 
with  the  dying  of  his  clan.     Neither  children  nor 


Don  Quixotes  Ranch  143 

grandchildren  sustained  him  nor  took  over  his 
cares.  From  habit  he  looked  after  his  cattle;  but 
his  horse  had  grown  old  with  its  rider,  and 
neither  could  have  covered  more  than  a  few  miles 
each  day. 

I  wondered  why  he  had  not  bidden  farewell  and 
decided  that  he  must  have  forgotten  that  I  was 
in  his  house ;  but  when  I  wished  to  pay  the  women, 
I  heard  that  the  ranchero  had  ordered  them  to  ac- 
cept nothing:  'he  wished  me  to  feel  that  I  was 
his  welcome  guest.'  And  that,  amid  poverty,  was 
Quixotic,  too.  There  was  no  one  to  feed  Color- 
ada,  and  the  Indian  woman  sulkily  asserted  that 
there  was  no  fodder.  But  I  searched  around, 
found  bran  and  maize,  and  gave  Colorada  plenty; 
then  I  saddled  her  without  comment  and  rode 
away.  So  is  hospitality  requited  when  a  mule 
must  be  fed. 

With  the  shutting  in  of  the  trees  and  the  vanish- 
ing of  the  farm  I  felt  as  though  I  had  read,  rather 
than  encountered,  that  experience  of  the  old 
ranchero  on  his  broken  horse,  that  I  had  never 
seen  him  in  truth,  but  had  dreamed  of  Don  Quix- 
ote and  Rosinante  and  imagined  a  Quixotic  setting 
for  them  on  the  frontierland  of  Honduras. 

The  path  led  over  hot  stragghng  hills.  Once, 
at  a  cool  and  shadowy  brook,  there  was  a  giant 
ceiba-tree  with  its  peculiar  sharp-edged  roots  and 


144  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

its  great  branches.  Otherwise  there  was  little  to 
note  until  I  came  to  a  sugar-mill,  where  the  cane 
was  being  pressed  between  revolving  cylinders 
of  steel  while  the  sap  was  smoking  and  boiling 
in  large  open  vats,  tended  by  Indians  armed  with 
perforated  ladles  and  scoops.  The  machinery 
was  made  in  Ohio,  U.  S.  A. 

I  was  told  that  the  Copan  had  been  unfordable 
for  nearly  a  week  and  that  Colorada  would  have 
to  stay  on  the  hither  shore.  Riding  down  to  the 
river,  I  found  the  forecast  true.  Great  masses 
of  reddish  brown  were  foaming  and  roaring  down 
the  swollen  bed,  and  though  I  should  have  liked  to 
take  the  chances  of  swimming,  I  knew  that  the 
natives  were  right.  Returning  to  the  mill,  I  left 
Colorada  entranced  with  the  faint  sweetness  of 
the  pressed  cane  and  crossed  on  foot  by  the 
swinging  wire-bridge  to  the  village  of  Copan. 

There  I  found  the  apothecary  composing  verses 
for  a  birthday  wreath.  He  was  reading  them  to 
the  general  grocer  for  criticism  and  approval. 
After  a  few  minor  changes,  both  agreed  that  they 
were  very  good.  I  could  not  identify  the  metre, 
but  liked  some  of  the  words,  and  bought  a  bottle 
of  beer  and  a  pineapple.  After  that  I  went  to  see 
the  alcalde,  who  informed  me  that  the  Honduran- 
ian government  imposed  a  tax  on  visitors  for  the 
upkeep  of  the  antiquities,  and  suggested  five  del- 


Doti  Quixote's  Ranch  145 

lars  gold  as  the  correct  amount.  Fortunately  I 
was  able  to  display  my  wealth  in  Guatemalan 
paper  (which  was  quite  worthless  in  Honduras) 
and  my  poverty  in  current  silver.  The  Hondur- 
anian Government  thereupon  lowered  its  impost; 
but  to  no  purpose.  Finally  the  said  Government, 
noting  my  professional  capacity  and  casual  inten- 
tions, and  discouraged  at  my  insolvency,  saw  fit  to 
remit  entirely  the  revenue  for  the  upkeep  of  the 
antiquities,  and  gave  me  a  barelegged  escort,  for 
which  I  was  tempted  to  thank  the  said  Govern- 
ment in  behalf  of  the  learned  and  literary  profes- 
sions which  I  represented  and  the  nationality  to 
which  I  belonged.  Thereupon  I  requested  the 
escort  to  look  lively,  as  I  was  hungry,  and 
promised  it  twenty  cents  if  it  fulfilled  its  office  to 
my  satisfaction.  The  escort  collected  its  knife, 
and  we  started. 

There  are  numerous  accounts  of  the  antiquities 
of  Copan,  and  with  these  I  have  no  ambition  to 
contend. 

The  idols  and  ruined  courts  are  a  memorable 
sight,  if  only  because  they  stand  so  desolate  and 
overgrown.  Though  I  had  come  on  purpose  to 
see  them,  the  setting  seemed  so  unlikely  that  the 
surprise  of  the  unexpected  was  not  altogether  dis- 
solved.    One  would  as  soon  look  for  the  pyra- 


146  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

mids  of  Sakkhara  In  the  plains  of  Dakota  as  for 
these  splendid  relics  of  a  great  civilisation  amid  the 
unlettered  peasantry  of  the  Honduranian  woods. 
The  tall  stones,  carved  in  the  overprofusion  of 
early  decorative  art  with  priest-kings  in  ritual 
dress,  with  faces  and  manikins  and  involved 
demon  hmbs,  have  enough  of  the  proud  endurance 
of  everlasting  things.  So  that  one  needs  neither 
sentiment  nor  fantasy  to  feel  the  spell  of  that  un- 
kempt hillside  with  its  treasure  of  more  than  a 
thousand  years. 

It  was  very  hot,  and  the  tangle  of  undergrowth 
made  progress  difficult  and  slow.  If  one  would 
study  the  ruins,  one  can  learn  more  from  looking 
at  the  books  of  Stephens  or  Maudslay  than  by 
travelling  to  Central  America.  I  learned 
nothing,  yet  I  gained  an  unforgettable  memory; 
even  as  those  who  go  to  Athens  find  that  they  al- 
ready knew  more  about  the  Parthenon  than  ocu- 
lar inspection  will  teach  them,  yet  would  not  trade 
for  all  the  architectural  treatises  and  drawings 
one  moment  of  Attic  light  on  the  golden-brown  of 
its  walls  and  columns. 

At  the  time  I  thought  that  I  must  be  mad,  to 
ride  those  distances  with  their  hardships  and  dis- 
comforts only  to  look  around  me  for  a  casual  hour 
at  stones  whose  reproductions  are  in  our  Ameri- 
can museums.     But  one  never  knows.     Stumbling 


Don  Quixote's  Ranch  147 

and  sweating,  I  saw  little :  returned  to  the  village, 
I  could  even  ask  myself  whether  I  had  noted  any- 
thing at  all.  And  yet  from  all  my  journey  mem- 
ory has  since  singled  out  for  its  most  special 
pleasure  that  idle  glimpse  at  the  jungle-smothered 
hillside  above  the  wild  and  muddy  river,  with  its 
idols,  its  overgrown  walls,  and  its  vanished  courts. 

:):  ^  :)c  H^  :(:  :)c  3|c 

My  failure  to  bring  Colorada  across  the  river 
forced  me  to  return  to  the  lonely  ranch  for 
another  night.  At  dusk  Don  Quixote  rode  in, 
spectral  as  before.  He  showed  no  surprise  at 
seeing  me ;  but  inquired  if  I  had  any  English  books, 
as  he  would  like  to  learn  the  language.  He 
seemed  disappointed  at  my  negative,  though  he 
must  have  known  that,  in  the  land  where  he  would 
shortly  go  to  dwell,  there  is  no  need  for  learning 
of  other  tongues. 

I  had  brought  the  women  a  fine  pineapple  from 
Copan.  It  was  my  only  recompense  for  their 
hospitality,  as  they  again  refused  my  offers  of  pay- 
ment the  next  morning. 

On  the  way  back  to  the  deceptive  ford  which 
had  cost  me  such  a  wetting  three  days  before,  a 
couple  of  brilliant  red  and  green  macaws  flew 
overhead  in  the  sunlight  and  there  were  flocks  of 
the  little  green  love-birds  which  are  such  common 


148  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

ihousehold  pets  in  this  part  of  the  land.  They 
have  a  large  yellowish  saucer  around  each  eye, 
and  this,  above  a  heavily  bent  and  juridical  beak, 
makes  them  look  like  the  wisest  judge  that  ever 
sat  the  bench.  In  captivity  they  become  extreme- 
ly affectionate,  incline  toward  a  hilarious  gravity 
(if  such  a  condition  may  exist),  and  are  an  un- 
ending nuisance  about  the  house.  Flying  wild 
across  a  clearing,  they  are  a  brilliant  and  happy 
spectacle;  for  a  parrot  free  is  as  different  from  a 
parrot  caged  as,  let  us  say,  a  sea-going  lobster 
from  a  salad  en  mayonnaise. 

The  river  was  in  still  higher  flood,  and  there 
was  nothing  to  do  but  to  swim.  To  my  surprise 
Colorada  stepped  in  without  remonstrance  and  off 
we  swirled,  both  of  us  submerged  to  the  chin. 
The  current  carried  us  down  a  little,  but  we  made 
the  other  bank  easily  enough  and  waded  up  in  the 
swift  shallows  to  the  proper  exit.  Riding  in  wet 
clothes  is  neither  dangerous  nor  uncomfortable: 
true  depression  only  sets  in  when  the  saddle-bags 
are  opened  for  inspection.  Besides,  a  wet  saddle- 
cloth and  saddle  are  not  apt  to  be  merciful  to  an 
animal's  back.  However,  "God  himself  rescued 
you!"  cried  a  native  whom  we  met;  and  we  had 
the  pleasure  of  learning  that  we  had  been  the  only 
ones  to  cross  the  stream  during  the  last  two  days. 

Poor  Colorada !     The  path  must  have  climbed 


Don  Quixote's  Ranch  149 

nearly  three  thousand  feet,  for  we  toiled  up  to 
high  barren  ridges  looking  wide  over  familiar  and 
unfamiliar  valleys.  Far  below  we  could  see  Don 
Quixote's  ranch  and  the  valley  of  the  Copan,  be- 
fore we  turned  into  other  watersheds,  wild 
scrawny  uplands  full  of  thatched  huts  and  im- 
possible settlements.  The  descent  was  even  more 
sudden,  down  and  down  into  the  dense  vegetation 
once  more,  to  rejoin  the  Copan  where  he  broke 
through  rocky  gorges.  There,  shut  in  by  hot  un- 
fertile hills,  was  a  basin  with  two  little  towns  that 
fronted  each  other  less  than  a  mile  apart. 
Twins,  they  bore  twin  names,  Camotan  and 
Jocotan.  In  either  one  you  wish  that  you  were 
in  the  other. 

In  one  of  these  I  found  shelter  with  a  kindly 
and  garrulous  old  couple,  a  veritable  Philemon 
and  Baucis  in  Spanish  guise.  .  .  , 

"The  twain  the  whole  house  are,  and  order  and 
obey." 

These  made  me  truly  welcome;  the  old  man 
showed  me  a  room,  while  the  old  woman  in  her 
out-of-door  kitchen  fell  to  cooking  me  a 
dinner.  .  .  . 

"Super  omnia  vultus 

Accessere  boni,  nee  Iners  pauperque  voluntas." 

The  old  man  and  I  were  soon  fast  friends,  and 


150  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

I  found  myself  trying  to  explain  why  I  rode  the 
country  on  mule-back,  alone  and  unarmed;  but  I 
could  convince  neither  him  nor  myself,  for  the 
problem  was  really  too  difficult. 

My  wet  accoutrements  were  hung  up  to  dry, 
the  old  man  insisting  that  I  should  not  think  of 
departing  on  the  morrow.  He  promised  to  help 
me  to  sell  Colorada,  and  himself  led  her  down  to 
the  stream  at  dusk  to  water  and  tied  her  up  for 
the  night.  His  ordinary  kindnesses  shone  in  that 
land  of  indifference  like  the  candle  and  the  good 
deed  in  this  naughty  world. 

I  went  to  bed  and  dreamed  that  I  was  no  longer 
in  Guatemala. 

In  the  morning  the  dear  old  nuisance  caught  me 
at  my  shaving  and  was  at  once  lost  in  rapturous 
admiration  of  my  safety-razor  (which  he  called  a 
shaving-machine).  Like  a  child  he  begged  and 
teased  me  until  I  gave  in.  With  a  round  ball  of 
soap  and  a  crumpled  handful  of  string  he  con- 
verted his  face  to  that  of  a  circus-clown.  Though 
he  got  soap  into  his  eyes  and  both  soap  and  string 
into  his  mouth,  I  pronounced  the  lather  a  huge 
success.  He  settled  himself  in  a  wooden  chair, 
blew  out  his  cheeks,  and  announced  that  I  could 
begin.  Was  it  my  professional  Ineptitude,  or 
the  dullness  of  my  razor,  or  the  length  of  his 
beard,  or  did  I  merely  Imagine  those  sounds  of 


Don  Quixote's  Ranch  15 1 

rending  and  scraping  that  attended  on  my  art? 
He  swore  that  it  was  the  height  of  luxury  and 
comfort  and  that  the  machine  was  almost  worth 
its  fabulous  price  of  two  hundred  dollars  (Guate- 
malan). It  was  a  day  in  his  life,  a  memory  for 
all  time. 

Within  ten  minutes  fourteen  neighbors  had 
heard  the  details  from  his  lips;  and  this  so  in- 
creased his  prestige  that  he  came  to  see  that  mere 
thanks  were  an  inadequate  return  for  my  service. 
His  eye  travelled  in  perplexity  around  his  paltry 
shop.  I  guessed  that  he  was  trying  to  find  me  a 
present;  but  I  did  not  speak  in  time. 

With  smiles  that  almost  turned  to  foolish  tears, 
he  begged  me  to  be  the  owner  of  his  pet,  his  own 
little  green  love-bird  that  climbed  so  prettily  about 
the  chairs  and  tables  and  sat  on  his  wife's  shoulder 
while  she  stirred  the  bean-pot. 

"But  what  shall  I  do  with  him?"  said  I. 

"Ride  with  him  on  your  shoulder,"  he 
answered.  "He  will  sit  there  all  the  way  back 
to  the  States.     And  always  you  will  think  of  me." 

For  a  time  I  feared  that  he  was  right;  but  in 
the  end  there  was  no  offence,  and  the  love-bird 
lived  on  in  Jocotan. 

And  here,  in  that  same  town,  comedy  turned 
to  tragedy;  for  I  sold  my  Colorada  for  a  handful 
of  silver  and  stood  by  while  another  man  rode 


152  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

her  away  to  an  upland  farm.  With  that  she  goes 
out  of  my  story,  a  little  older  and  sadder  than  she 
entered,  with  close  on  a  thousand  miles  to  the 
credit  of  her  grey  legs.  I  taught  her  a  little 
about  river-crossings,  while  she  taught  me  the 
hundred  and  one  things  that  only  a  mountain-mule 
knows.  I  hope  that  she  found  a  less  energetic 
master  than  I  (a  more  indulgent  one  never  rode 
the  Guatemalan  trails).  And  with  that  wish,  in 
simple  decency,  I  must  mark  her  memory  by  end- 
ing the  chapter. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  LOWLANDS 

CoLORADA  was  made  over  by  deed  and  oath  to 
her  new  master,  and  I  was  left  with  the  remnants 
of  equipage  and  the  prospect  of  thirty  miles  on 
foot.  I  was  content  to  wait  for  night  and  the 
moon  before  starting;  but  while  I  talked  to  the 
small  boys  of  the  village  and  kicked  my  heels  in 
front  of  my  lodgings,  the  good  lady  of  the  house, 
having  eaten  a  green  orange  and  some  rancid 
butter  without  due  interval  or  reflection,  was  sud- 
denly convulsed  with  colic.  The  miserable 
creature  died  hourly  through  all  that  afternoon 
and  evening  and  made  a  losing  hazard  out  of  my 
attempts  at  sleep.  At  midnight  my  equally  wake- 
ful host,  seeing  me  prepared  to  go,  brewed  me 
coffee  while  he  reviled  his  consort  for  her  per- 
verse failure  to  recover.  He  accompanied  me  a 
step  upon  my  way,  past  the  moonlit  square  and 
the  sleeping  soldiers,  whom  he  seemed  anxious  to 
avoid.  At  the  edge  of  the  village  he  begged  me 
to  wait  for  daylight. 

153 


154  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

"Stay  and  sleep,"  said  he.  "There  are  evil 
folk  on  the  roads  at  night." 

"But  I  am  more  evil  still,"  said  I;  and  on  the 
instant  felt  like  a  hare  in  full  armour  which  I  once 
had  seen  in  a  Japanese  picture. 

The  timid  old  man  was  somewhat  re-assured 
and  sent  me  off  with  his  blessing.  My  last  wish 
was  for  his  wife's  recovery.  "Oh,"  said  he,  "she 
will  not  die:  she  never  does."  And  with  that  we 
parted. 

By  dawn  I  was  high  up  in  the  hills,  above  a 
gorge  through  which  my  muddy  enemy,  the 
Copan,  foamed  and  roared.  It  seemed  not  unlike 
the  South  of  France  with  its  limestone  clefts  and 
chasms  and  restless  rivers.  But  better  light  de- 
stroyed the  resemblance.  I  saw  towers  and  roofs 
in  the  distance,  my  only  glimpse  of  that  Chiqui- 
mula  where  the  Spaniards  had  once  built  a  great 
church.  It  is  now  a  great  ruin  and  may  well  be 
worth  a  visit.  But  my  path  turned  away  on  a 
long  descent  to  the  burning  plain  of  Zacapa;  and 
there  I  walked  in  the  sun  for  a  couple  of  hours 
between  great  twisted  growth  of  cactus  and 
prickly-pear  which  almost  alone  grow  in  that 
curiously  arid  stretch.  In  the  midst  of  an  other- 
wise prodigal  fertility  the  river-valley  of  Zacapa 
is  bad-land.  The  giant  cactus,  erect  and  fantastic- 
armed,  grows  to  a  thirty-foot  tree    (if  such  a 


The  Lowlands  155 

malevolent  and  leafless  demon  may  be  allowed 
that  shadowy  and  comfortable  name).  The 
opuntia  spreads  out  its  thorny  elephant-ears,  from 
which  (like  a  travesty  of  Athena's  birth)  spring 
new  ears  fully  armed.  There  is  no  body, — only 
a  chain  of  ears  with  a  waxy  yellow  flower  which 
runs  a  gamut  of  sunset  colours  as  it  goes  to  fruit. 
Between  them,  Cereus  and  Opuntia  cover  the  bare 
soil  with  long  fleshy  fingers  pulled  out  heavenward 
and  lop-eared  monsters  of  unpleasant  green.  But 
between  the  ranks  of  this  mediaeval  purgatory  ran 
the  railway,  and  in  the  heart  of  the  heat  was  the 
town  of  Zacapa  with  its  American  hotel.  A 
civilisation  of  iced  drinks  and  screened  doors  and 
spring-beds  closed  in  about  me,  and  I  was  at  rest. 

The  rliver  was  an  old  friend.  It  was  the 
Motagua,  which  weeks  earlier  I  had  seen  as  a 
little  stream  trickling  through  the  barrancas  of 
Quiche.  It  had  come  down  through  a  hundred 
and  twenty  miles  of  hill-country  and  was  now  the 
great  river  of  Guatemala  in  an  alluvial  plain  ten 
miles  wide.  Below  Zacapa  it  leaves  this  arid  ex- 
panse in  rapids  that  break  through  rocky  bar- 
riers and  descend  to  a  level  valley-floor.  Here 
on  one  side  are  the  border-mountains  of  Hon- 
duras, on  the  other  is  the  long  spur  of  the  range 
where  the  ancient  races  dug  their  silver  and  gold. 


156  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

All  between  is  damp  lowland,  heavily  flooded  in 
the  time  of  greatest  rain  where  vast  tangles  of 
sun-obscuring  forest-growth  are  rapidly  being  con- 
verted into  a  sea  of  banana-trees. 

At  Quirlgua  Station  there  is  now  no  jungle  to 
be  seen.  Instead,  a  smooth  sloping  lawn,  a  hos- 
pital, a  hotel,  and  endless  banana  plantations 
show  what  the  self-interested  benevolence  of  an 
American  fruit  company  has  done  to  open  and 
Improve  the  country.  Improvement,  however, 
has  an  economic  rather  than  scenic  application; 
for  a  banana  farm  is  a  dull  affair.  The  palm- 
like  leaves  are  always  torn  to  ribbons  and  these 
have  a  pleasant  motion  in  the  breeze;  but  there  Is 
no  real  beauty  of  shadow  or  foliage,  and  the  feel- 
ing of  heat  Is  indlssoclable  from  the  vast  damp 
stretches  of  evenly  planted  stems.  To  clear  the 
jungle  and  set  bananas  is  like  ploughing  ruined 
gardens  to  raise  wheat.  The  railway-traveller 
may  judge  of  this.  Some  ten  miles  below  Quir- 
lgua there  Is  a  fine  stretch  of  jungle  which  the 
banana  Interests  have  not  yet  managed  to  buy. 
There  the  vast  palms  and  fern-trees  still  stretch 
up  their  leaves,  the  ceibas  rise  to  their  hundred- 
and-fifty  foot  greatness,  bearded  with  Spanish 
moss.  There  is  hanging  bread-fruit;  and  one 
may  see  that  strange  tree,  the  matapalo,  whose 
base  is  a  wigwam  of  edged  roots  ending  below  in 


The  Lowlands  157 

webbed  feet  and  merging  above  to  the  giant  trunk. 
When  young,  this  tree  grows  around  some  other 
for  support,  and  in  the  end  strangles  it  to  death. 
The  great  branches  are  loaded  with  tree-orchids 
in  full  flower  or  cabled  with  "monkey-swings," 
fifty-foot  vine-stalks  that  descend  like  stays  to  the 
damp  soil  (from  which  they  draw  moisture  in 
such  quantities  that,  if  they  are  cut,  they  gush 
with  clear  and  abundant  water).  Yet  it  is  not 
only  the  strangeness  and  variety  of  the  detail 
which  impresses.  There  is  always  in  the  tropical 
forest  a  sense  of  something  invisible  just  beyond, 
a  daylight  compacted  of  shadow,  a  dark  silence 
which  works  on  the  senses  as  though  it  were  por- 
tentous of  something  unimaginable  about  to  be  en- 
countered. And  all  this  has  vanished  from  Quir- 
igua,  and  the  monotony  of  the  plantation  has 
taken  its  place.  Monotony  there  is  indeed.  The 
straight  tracks  of  the  little  railways  lead  on  in- 
terminably, since  every  spot  is  precisely  like  every 
other.  It  is  a  realization  of  Alice's  looking-glass 
adventure.  Walk  or  run  as  you  will,  you  are  still 
in  the  selfsame  place.  In  the  heat  of  noon  the 
feeling  of  oppressive  monotony  is  intensified. 
From  the  hotel  verandah  the  drowsy  eye  looks 
across  the  river-plain  to  the  thunder-clouds  that 
are  balled  on  the  high  blue  ridges  of  Honduras. 
Elsewhere  the  sky  is  clear,  an  intense  blue  through 


158  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

which  the  sunlight  descends  and  in  which  the  buz- 
zards soar  and  circle,  hour  after  hour,  without 
beat  of  wing.  There  is  no  wind,  no  noise,  only 
all-penetrating  noonday  heat.  The  foreground 
is  a  crude  light-green  of  banana-plants.  Two 
miles  distant,  rises  the  dark  green  of  a  single 
grove.  This  alone  the  fruit  company  has  spared, 
for  here  are  hidden  the  most  famous  Indian  ruins 
in  the  land. 

They  have  been  so  well  pictured  and  described,^ 
their  replicas  are  to  be  found  in  so  many  northern 
museums,  that  there  is  here  no  reason  for  detailed 
account  or  illustration.  But  I  may  still  be  per- 
mitted a  few  impressions  and  opinions  of  these, 
the  most  interesting  ruins  that  I  saw. 

The  site  has  been  thoroughly  cleared  of  trees 
and  undergrowth,  which  has  increased  its  accessi- 
bility and  visibility,  but  rather  impaired  its 
picturesqueness.  No  doubt  it  is  captious  to  com- 
plain. The  grove  has  all  sprung  up  since  the 
temples  were  built  and  the  obelisks  erected;  in 
fact  it  is  the  prying  strength  of  vegetation  that 
has  been  the  main  instrument  of  destruction.  Not 
the  hands   of  succeeding  savage   races,   but  the 

^  See,  for  example:  J.  L.  Stephens,  Incidents  of  Travel  in 
Central  America,  Chiapas,  and  Yucatan.     1840.     Vol.  II. 

A.  C.  &  A.  P.  Maudslay,  A  Glimpse  at  Guatemala.  1899. 
(Sumptuously    illustrated.)    pp.    146-151. 

Art  &  Archaology,  1916.  pp.  269-290. 


The  Lowlands  159 

roots  and  branches  of  the  jungle  have  forced  the 
stones  from  their  places  and  overthrown  the 
heavy  walls.  Once  there  was  a  village  round 
about.  But  houses  with  walls  of  split  bamboo 
and  roofs  of  palm-leaf  thatch  are  the  least  en- 
during of  human  habitations.  Within  a  year 
after  their  destruction  the  jungle  must  have  come 
in.  For  all  that,  the  jungle  now  belongs  to 
Quirigua  as  the  Turkish  minarets  belong  to  Saint 
Sophia,  and  I  am  as  sorry  that  the  ruins  stand 
in  clearings  as  I  am  glad  that  around  those  clear- 
ings the  great  trees  are  still  allowed  to  stand. 

From  the  endless  world  of  bananas  the  visitor 
enters  the  sacred  grove  and  comes  to  a  clearing 
with  five  obelisks.  They  are  of  uneven  height, 
but  all  alike  are  carved  with  strangely  complicated 
figures  of  priests  or  kings,  standing  erect,  and  all 
have,  on  their  shorter  sides,  square  panels  of 
picture-writing. 

A  quarter  of  a  mile  further  on  are  the  ruins  of 
a  considerable  group  of  buildings,  part  excavated, 
part  mere  mounds  of  tropic  vegetation.  Here  in 
19 1 2  an  American  expedition  brought  to  light  and 
partially  restored  an  ancient  temple,  whose  seven 
chambers  He  deep  in  massive  walls.  Nearby  in 
a  plaza  are  idols,  among  them  the  Great  Turtle. 

The  obelisks  of  the  priest-kings  are  monoliths 
of  reddish  brown  sandstone   tinged   with   faint 


i6o  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

purple.  The  stone  was  seemingly  quarried  in  the 
foothills  beyond  the  floor  of  the  river-valley  and 
floated  to  its  destination  when  the  Motagua  was 
in  flood.  The  largest  are  25  and  26  feet  in 
height.  The  kings  in  consequence  are  greatly 
more  than  life-size,  though  their  great  stature  is 
much  reduced  by  the  high  plaque  of  ornament  on 
which  they  stand  and  by  the  towering  head-dress 
whose  many  stages  wander  off  into  vagaries  of 
grinning  heads,  monsters,  and  branching  feather- 
work. 

The  (typical  king  has  rather  rude  features, 
large  almond-shaped  eyes,  a  rather  triangular  and 
fleshy  nose,  lips  widely  parted  to  make  an  almond- 
shaped  mouth,  a  pointed  beard  springing  from  the 
underside  of  the  chin.  The  so-called  Egyptian 
cast  of  this  countenance  is  merely  due  to  the  in- 
evitable conventions  of  an  unemancipated  art. 
The  squatting  priestess  with  the  marvellously 
elaborate  headdress,  who  is  carved  on  the  "Great 
Turtle,"  may  as  well  be  compared  to  a  Korean 
idol.  The  elements  of  such  a  comparison  are  all 
of  them  merely  the  universal  primitive  conven- 
tions. Korean  and  Mayan  art  both  fall  victim 
to  the  instinct  for  frontal  presentation  and  seek 
refuge  from  empty  surfaces  by  geometric  fillings. 

On  all  the  carvings  at  Quirigua  there  is  a  tu- 
mult of  accessory  design.     Thus,  the  great  turtle, 


The  Lowlands  i6i 

a  solid  stone  of  some  twenty  tons,  has  every  inch 
of  surface  wrought  with  ornaments  which  irrele- 
vantly include  human  profiles  and  run  to  harsh- 
angled  scrolls  without  apparent  import.  Much 
patience  shows  that  these  scrolls  are  geometric 
conventionalisations  of  human  or  animal  motives. 
Tree  and  flower  designs  seem  to  be  absent.  The 
trick  of  the  art,  then,  is  to  make  a  geometric 
mosaic  of  carving  from  these  discontinuous  forms 
and  to  link  them  together  by  some  pretence  of  a 
general  scheme.  Consequently,  the  dominant 
figure  of  priest  or  dragon  ramifies  into  irrelevan- 
cies.  Each  subordinate  part  becomes  a  field  for 
smaller  independent  designs,  as  when  the  royal 
boots  become  human  masks  in  profile,  or  the  nose 
of  the  great  toad  becomes  a  human  head.  And 
so  the  general  plan  wanders  off  into  borrowings 
from  demon  and  bird  and  snake,  until  every  inch 
of  surface  is  filled  with  these  interlocking 
elements,  and  art  has  become  a  puzzle-picture. 

There  are,  therefore,  two  striking  '(and  I 
should  say,  disastrous)  elements  in  this  art:  first, 
the  trick  of  turning  nature  into  a  repertoire  of 
angular  conventionalisations  of  human,  avian, 
and  reptilian  motives;  secondly,  the  mania  for 
making  each  organic  part  of  a  large  design  serve 
as  a  new  field  for  wholly  unrelated  smaller  de- 
signs, whose  elements  in  turn  are  similarly  at- 


1 62  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

tacked  and  disintegrated.  (The  old  art  of  the 
Scythian  steppes  of  Russia  shows  this  same  ten- 
dency; the  art  of  Greece  would  have  none  of  it.) 

It  is  perfectly  just,  therefore,  to  maintain  that 
Mayan  art  gives  us  just  the  opposite  of  those 
qualities  of  formal  synthesis  and  unity,  of  emo- 
tional expression  in  natural  objects  through  sig- 
nificant line  and  mass,  which  are  the  elements  of 
greatness  in  Greek  and  the  best  of  modern  Euro- 
pean art. 

Mayan  sculpture,  from  this  point  of  view,  is  at 
its  weakest  in  large  complicated  subjects  and  at  its 
best  in  isolated  decorative  elements,  especially  in 
those  where  the  angular  treatment  is  in  place  and 
expressive, — I  mean,  in  the  grotesque.  Such  is 
the  manikin-rattle  or  sceptre  in  the  hand  of  the 
priestess  in  the  dragon's  mouth;  and  such  par  ex- 
cellence are  the  manikins  of  the  larger  panels  of 
picture-writing  on  one  of  the  obelisks.  Here 
there  is  a  truly  amusing  inventiveness  in  the  tor- 
mented positions  of  the  little  human-limbed 
demon  with  his  acrobatic  agility  so  deftly  rec- 
tangularised.  Because  there  is  the  same  na'ive 
humor  of  interwoven  line  and  delight  in  the 
affrightening,  there  is  a  certain  resemblance  to 
Chinese  dragon-designs ;  but  the  comparison  goes 
no  further,  because  there  is  no  counterpart  to  the 


The  Lowlands  163 

serious  and  unfantastic  qualities  of  Chinese 
drawing. 

These  little  panels  (perhaps  because  they  show 
the  local  art  at  its  best)  bring  out  two  further 
characteristics  of  Mayan  carving,  which  again 
seem  artistically  mistaken.  These  are,  the  sub- 
stitution of  an  artificial  complexity  of  line  for  the 
simple  and  flowing  contours  of  natural  forms, 
and  the  failure  to  distinguish  the  merely  grotesque 
from  the  imaginatively  significant. 

Accordingly,  I  cannot  rate  Mayan  art  very 
high.  But  it  has  a  great  and  absorbing  interest 
which  is  largely  independent  of  its  aesthetic  value. 
After  all,  it  is  what  it  is, — a  strange  and  marvel- 
lous relic  of  a  unique  civilisation.  I  am  confident 
that  Quirigua  will  become  a  great  place  of  pil- 
grimage. Seen  in  their  setting  the  bizarre  dis- 
tortions of  its  art  are  only  the  more  stimulating  to 
the  imagination  which  begins  to  play  about  altar 
and  image  and  shrine  in  the  jungle,  carved  and 
built  and  abandoned  more  than  thirteen  centuries 
ago. 

Of  the  Quirigua  architecture  there  is  not  sufli- 
cient  to  allow  an  estimate  of  its  attainments.  It 
is  not  mechanically  interesting,  as  it  seems  to  use 
neither  columns  nor  arches,  but  depends  on  solid 
wall-faces.  In  the  Quirigua  temple  there  were 
seemingly  two  stages,  the  lower  one  plain  with  a 


164  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

cornice-band  of  pictoglyphs,  the  upper  a  fagade 
of  patterned  stones.  This  lower  portion  stands 
to-day,  its  wall-blocks  relaid  in  cement  and 
sheltered  from  the  rain.  The  long  box-hke  plan 
is  clear  and  the  pictoglyphic  adornment  of  the 
threshhold  steps  is  preserved  in  place.  In  the 
hotel  at  Quirigua  Station  is  a  row  of  idol-heads, 
sombre  or  grotesque,  which  once  ornamented  the 
wall-spaces  and  glowered  above  the  doorways. 
The  picture-writing  of  the  cornice  records  a  date 
which  has  been  synchronised  with  540  A.  D. 

These  pictoglyphs  have  a  quaint  geometry 
which  is  all  their  own.  Of  the  200  varieties, 
nearly  a  quarter  are  understood  by  the  specialists, 
though  all  of  these  (unfortunately)  are  connected 
with  phases  of  the  Mayan  calendar.  The  chro- 
nology is  thus  assured  to  us,  and  we  read  their 
records  like  one  who  should  read  our  northern 
chronicles  with  a  knowledge  confined  to  numerals. 
I  fear  that  the  accomplishment  is  almost  equiva- 
lent to  ignorance,  as  far  as  the  more  human  ele- 
ments of  history  are  concerned.  However,  this 
much  is  held  to  be  established:  that  the  royal 
obelisks  range  between  490  and  535  A.  D.  (they 
are  supposed  to  show  a  steady  degeneration  in 
artistic  power)  ;  that  the  temples  were  built  and 
deserted  in  the  sixth  century  when  the  Mayas  fled 
northward  into  Yucatan,  where  their  civilisation 


The  Lowlands  165 

continued  until  the  fifteenth  century;  but  that 
their  ancient  sites  were  never  revisited  by  them. 
Quirigua  therefore  has  been  lost  in  the  jungle  for 
more  than  a  millennium.  Yet  with  the  further 
excavation  of  the  site  and  the  complete  decipher- 
ment of  the  writing,  it  may  be  that  even  so  great 
a  lapse  of  time  has  not  sufficed  to  blot  out  the 
ancient  temple-town  from  the  understanding  of 
mankind. 

Below  Quirigua  the  railway  continues  to  follow 
the  Motagua  toward  the  sea.  Banana  planta- 
tions alternate  with  short  stretches  of  unclaimed 
thicket.  In  place  of  Indian  villages  of  bamboo 
and  thatch  appear  the  settlements  of  the  negroes 
who  are  employed  on  the  plantations.  They  live 
in  whitewashed  wooden  shanties,  speak  a  highly 
comic  variant  of  English,  and  hail  from  distant 
parts.  Some  have  been  imported  from  our  own 
southern  states.  Many  have  come  from  Jamaica 
in  the  West  Indies,  and  most  of  these  would  like 
to  get  back  to  that  island  where,  as  one  informed 
me,  there  is  for  them  "very  glorious  second-class 
living."  But  few  of  them  have  energy  or  ready 
money  enough  to  reahze  this  fitful  dream  of  re- 
turn. The  lowland  climate  has  taken  the  energy 
and  the  Chinese  who  keep  the  general  stores  have 
taken  the  ready  money.     So  they  work  on,  play 


1 66  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

music,  live  in  their  shanties,  and  look  after  their 
wives.  In  a  world  of  idleness  how  should  they 
worry  themselves  for  anything  beyond? 

The  railway  leaves  the  Motagua  Valley  and 
passes  through  almost  sunless  thickets  to  the  head 
of  the  Gulf  of  Honduras.  Here  is  Port  Barrios, 
where  I  pray  Heaven  that  only  my  enemies  may 
ever  have  to  live.  Yet  there  are  three  large 
wooden  hotels,  food  in  plenty,  and  refuge  against 
the  mosquitoes,  so  that  it  would  not  be  hard  to 
imagine  worse  places.  This  is  the  terminus  of  the 
railway  from  Guatemala  City,  and  here  the  pas- 
senger steamers  arrive  weekly  from  New  Orleans 
and  fortnightly  from  New  York.  There  are  a 
dock,  a  railway  yard,  and  considerable  inter- 
mittent activity;  for  here  is  the  gateway  of  Guate- 
mala. 

The  weird  double  line  of  negro  huts  blazed  up 
in  the  middle  of  the  night  while  I  was  in  Barrios 
and  a  midnight  spectacle  of  Inferno  brought  on 
a  charred  dawn  with  half  of  the  village  destroyed. 
But  thatched  huts  are  like  tropical  vegetation  and 
grow  up  again  in  a  couple  of  days.  The  negroes 
wore  new  hats  and  shoes,  mysteriously  acquired 
during  the  excitement,  and  there  was  a  noticeable 
industry  among  the  Singer  sewing  machines  which 
infest  every  native  community,  as  unexpected 
gowns  were  shaped  from  strangely  plentiful  cloth; 


The  Lowlands  167 

but  all  this  subsided,  and  Barrios  resumed  its 
internautic  dullness. 

A  few  miles  oceanward  along  the  bay  lies 
Livingston.  Once  it  was  the  main  Atlantic  port, 
before  the  railway  diverted  every  cargo.  It  is 
still  the  capital  of  its  department,  vested  with 
official,  though  no  longer  commercial,  importance. 
Here  the  governor  lives,  the  court  legislates,  and 
the  band  plays.  Of  governor  and  judiciary  I 
have  nothing  to  record;  but  of  Livingston  as  a 
musical  centre  I  am  better  informed. 

It  was  Sunday,  a  poor  day  for  all  pursuits  and 
pastimes  wherein  precision  of  brain  and  hand 
are  consequent.  The  negro  who  carried  my  pack 
from  the  landing  was  on  the  amusing  side  of  that 
ragged  line  between  week-day  sobriety  and 
Dominical  hilarity.  It  was  he  who  informed  me 
that  he  played  bass  in  the  village  band  and  that 
there  was  to  be  a  concert  that  afternoon.  I  am 
a  lover  of  music,  yet  I  fear  that  I  furthered  her 
corruption,  since  by  rewarding  a  porter  I 
inebriated  a  musician.  When  I  reached  the  vil- 
lage square  an  hour  later,  the  band  had  taken 
their  places,  though  their  music-notes,  seen 
through  an  alcoholic  haze,  swayed  and  quadrilled 
before  their  eyes  and  refused  to  settle  quietly  on 
the  racks.  But  their  leader,  though  a  small  man, 
was  of  greater  capacity  than  they   (I  speak  as 


1 68  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

well  of  music  as  of  brandy),  oblivious  to  every 
thought  but  that  of  leadership.  For  him,  the 
politely  attentive  and  unsmiling  audience  was  for- 
gotten; he  saw  neither  square  nor  village,  but  only 
his  men.  His  face  was  set,  and  he  gripped  his 
wand  frenetically.  The  men  must  play  their 
notes. 

For  all  of  that,  they  did  not.  They  played 
their  neighbours',  they  invented,  borrowed,  and 
discovered  notes  such  as  I  have  never  heard,  till 
their  faces  swelled  with  the  windy  effort.  The 
little  leader  stopped  them  time  and  again,  to 
remonstrate,  to  argue,  to  exhort,  and  finally  to 
begin  afresh.  The  audience  waited  and  listened, 
polite,  unsmihng,  unsurprised.  At  last,  a  more 
than  usually  outrageous  impasse  precipitated  a 
long  tirade  against  the  wielder  of  the  clarinet, 
who  in  turn  became  voluble,  excited,  and  at  last 
mutinous.  He  refused  to  go  on,  rose,  and  tried 
to  leave.  At  the  steps,  the  little  leader  pounced 
upon  him  from  behind,  seized  his  coat-collar,  and 
manfully  dragged  him  back. 

"Jesus,"  said  he,  "sit  down!" 

Jesus  sat. 

"Take  that  pipe!" 

Jesus  sullenly  raised  the  instrument. 

"Now  blow  those  notes,  and  blow  them  right!" 
said  the  leader;  and  the  concert  began  again.     I 


The  Lowlands  169 

watched  Jesus.     The  stops  moved  nimbly  under 

his  fingers,  but  I  could  have  sworn  that  no  sound 

issued  forth.     The  leader  watched  him,  too,  with 

occasional  side-long  glances  of  furious  suspicion. 

Each  time  Jesus  redoubled  his  pantomimic  zeal. 

Meanwhile   the  drummer-boy  fell  asleep  in  the 

midst  of  the  uproar,  and  the  selection  had  to  be 

stopped  until  he  could  be  revivified.     The  native 

audience    was    attentive,     but    unamused.     For 

them  it  was  only  what  it  purported  to  be,  the 

regular  Sunday  concert. 
******* 

At  Livingston  the  Rio  Dulce  breaks  through 
the  shore  headlands,  to  form  the  most  beautiful 
river  in  Central  America.  A  thirty-foot  oil- 
burning  flat-bottomed  boat  runs  up-stream  once  a 
week,  starting  an  hour  before  the  dawn  and  finish- 
ing its  run  of  more  than  a  hundred  miles  at  sunset. 
In  those  fourteen  hours  it  makes  one  of  the  most 
interesting  and  beautiful  of  river  journeys.  At 
four  in  the  morning  we  left  the  landing-stage. 
It  was  brilliant  starlight.  The  dog-star  burned 
above  a  waning  moon,  and  both  re-appeared  re- 
flected on  the  calm  ocean  with  a  brilliance  that 
we  of  the  North  never  see.  For  the  dog-star 
can  cast  a  shadow  in  those  latitudes  and  the  full 
moon  floods  the  open  country  with  a  silver  day- 
light.    We  ran  inland,  and  soon  the  banks  rose 


170  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

up  to  shut  out  half  of  the  fading  starlight  with 
straight  walls  of  two  and  three  hundred  feet. 
By  daylight,  these  walls  are  solid  greenery,  tree 
above  tree,  with  that  dense  richness  of  shadow 
under  sunlight  which  gives  tropical  forests  their 
effect  of  richness  allied  to  that  of  mid-Gothic 
tracery  or  heavy  lace.  But  as  I  saw  it  first,  it 
was  all  shadowy  walls  and  starlit  water,  rare 
and  mysterious,  a  blend  of  elfland  with  explora- 
tions of  the  tributaries  of  the  Amazon.  With  a 
red  sunrise  streaming  behind  us  we  came  out  into 
a  lake  full  of  grassy  islands  and  low-lying  points 
and  shores,  which  after  an  hour  narrowed  to  a 
slow-running  stream  where  occasional  alligators 
submerged  themselves  at  our  approach.  Some 
twenty-five  miles  from  Livingston  an  old  crumbled 
Spanish  fort  stood  guard  over  a  final  bend  of  the 
river.  Rounding  the  point,  we  came  suddenly 
into  a  great  inland  lake  whose  further  shores  were 
mountains  lost  in  haze,  between  whose  lines  the 
water  ran  sheer  to  the  horizon  like  a  glimpse  of 
the  open  sea. 

It  was  the  Lake  of  Izabal,  or  Golfo  Dulce, 
thirty  miles  long  and  twelve  miles  wide,  with  a  lee 
shore  so  rough  under  the  afternoon  wind  that  the 
native  boats  dare  not  cross.  Around  it  are  the  hills, 
rising  inland  to  ridges  5000  feet  high.     Yet  the 


The  Lowlands  ^       171 

effect  is  more  akin  to  Neuchatel  than  Geneva, 
for  there  are  no  pealcs  nor  cliffs,  but  only  low 
wooded  shores;  and  the  great  hills  conceal  their 
height.  The  lake  was  windless  in  the  bright  sun, 
its  surface  so  thickly  pollen-streaked  that  it  re- 
sembled the  rich  gold  veining  of  some  blue  trans- 
lucent stone  which  changed  and  complicated  its 
marking  as  the  swell  of  the  boat  disturbed  it. 
Otherwise  there  was  nothing  to  see,  until  a  dozen 
silver-sided  fish  started  leaping  free,  and  once  the 
brown  back  of  an  animal  broke  the  water.  This 
I  took  to  be  a  sea-cow.  There  are  also  said  to  be 
tapirs  in  considerable  number;  but  of  these  I  saw 
none,  perhaps  because  of  their  enviable  ac- 
complishment of  crossing  a  lake  by  walking  on 
the  bottom,  perhaps  because  there  were  none  to 
see.  Across  the  lake  a  couple  of  houses  showed 
where  the  village  of  Izabal  stood.  In  Spanish 
times  and  even  until  the  railroad  was  built,  this 
was  the  main  Atlantic  port  of  the  country.  The 
sailing  boats  were  warped  up  the  long  windings 
of  the  river  to  the  lake  and  so  came  to  their  in- 
land destination,  which  was  rich  enough  in  ships 
and  cargo  to  tempt  the  pirate  ships  to  their  de- 
struction beneath  the  guns  of  San  Felipe,  the 
Spanish  fort  whose  ruins  I  had  seen.  It  is  all 
desolate   country   now   and   almost   uninhabited. 


172  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

But  it  was  here  that  Cortes  passed  in  1525  on 
that  marvellous  journey  to  Honduras  when  he 
built  bridges  through  miles  of  jungle-swamp,  with 
his  horses  floundering  to  their  very  ears. 

He  tells  his  adventures  simply  and  well  in  his 
fifth  letter  to  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  He  seems 
to  have  treated  the  natives  kindly,  though  he 
speaks  indifferently  of  burning  an  Indian  for  a 
moral  offence.  The  simple  folk  mistook  his  com- 
pass for  a  magic  mirror  and  hesitated  to  conspire 
against  him.  At  Peten  he  was  obliged  to  leave 
behind  him  a  horse  with  a  bad  splinter  in  its  foot. 
He  recommended  the  animal  so  strongly  to  his 
native  host  that  the  simple  Indian,  in  careful 
veneration  of  so  marvellous  an  animal,  offered  it 
the  choicest  birds  and  flowers  for  food.  The 
poor  beast  was  thankless  and  died.  Later  Span- 
iards found  a  carven  image  of  it  among  the  local 
gods;  but  this  was  subsequently  lost  overboard 
while  it  was  being  transported.  To  this  day  the 
natives  tell  of  Cortes  and  claim  that  on  still  days 
they  catch  a  glimpse  of  this  statue  at  the  bottom 
of  the  lake. 

Around  the  Lago  Dulce  in  Guatemala  Cortes 
was  unfortunate  enough  to  meet  with  armed  op- 
position and  had  in  consequence  a  sorry  time  in 
his  attempts  to  wrest  food  from  the  scattered  In- 


The  Lowlands  173 

dians  of  the  almost  pathless  jungle.  The  modern 
traveller  has  still  a  little  of  the  same  struggle,  just 
enough  to  let  him  admire  the  hardiness  of  that 
great  man. 

When  our  little  steamer  reached  the  head  of 
the  lake,  it  entered  a  muddy  estuary  between 
banks  of  willows  and  marsh-grass.  The  stream 
was  narrow,  but  proved  to  be  only  one  of  many 
mouths;  for  the  delta  of  the  Polochic  is  as  many- 
branched  as  Solomon's  famous  candlestick. 
After  the  partings  of  the  stream  were  passed,  the 
river  proved  to  be  of  great  size,  winding  swiftly 
through  endless  twists  and  turns.  The  journey 
is  both  fascinating  and  monotonous.  At  times 
the  jungle-trees  hang  over  the  muddy  water;  in 
other  parts  the  banks  are  sandy  flats  lined  with 
tall  plumed  grasses  and  palms.  But  everywhere 
the  waterfront  has  a  wonderful  variety  of  lights 
and  shadows,  of  great  trees  and  leafy  under- 
growth, through  which  the  eye  cannot  peer.  Be- 
hind its  screen  in  the  great  green  thicket  the  par- 
rots screech  and  chatter  and  an  occasional  black 
baboon  barks.  Now  and  then  a  pair  of  long- 
tailed  macaws  fly  up  and  across  the  stream.  If 
the  sun  falls  right,  their  dark  silhouettes  suddenly 
turn  to  a  brilliant  burst  of  vermilion  and  green, 


174  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

gorgeous  and  unforgettable.  Like  Wordsworth's 
daffodils,  long  afterward  they  flash  upon  that  in- 
ward eye  "which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude" : 

"I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 
What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought." 

It  was  to  such  scenes  and  down  this  very  river 
that  Cortes  floated  on  his  rude  rafts  four  hundred 
years  agoi.  At  a  swift  hairpin  bend  he  was 
swirled  into  the  bank,  to  be  showered  with  arrows 
by  the  ambushed  Indians  who  well  knew  this  trick 
of  the  wild  current.  Now,  Captain  Evans,  god- 
father of  the  Polochic,  used  to  run  a  Mississippi 
paddle-wheel  on  this  river,  and  one  time  he  ran 
it  hard  aground  on  one  of  these  turns.  "Evans' 
Bend"  said  he  laughingly,  as  we  passed  the  spot. 
But  I  wager  that  Cortes  had  named  and  cursed  it 
before  him. 

In  the  dry  season  the  river  runs  between  sand 
bars  and  muddy  flats  that  make  navigation  difli- 
cult  and  supply  sun-parlours  for  the  unnumbered 
populace  of  alligators.  But  during  the  time  of 
rains  the  muddy  water  stretches  unbroken  from 
bank  to  bank  and  the  alligators  sleep  in  the 
grasses  or  lie  at  the  bottom  of  the  stream. 

As  the  boat  passes,  kingfishers  fly  scoldingly 
from  snag  to  snag,  alligators  put  their  heads 
under  water,  the  turtles  scuttle  to  the  bottom,  the 


The  Lowlands  175 

herons  and  bitterns  start  up.  At  one  point  we 
roused  a  flock  of  those  white  herons  whose  exist- 
ence the  aigrette  hunters  once  so  endangered. 
Instead  of  rising  above  the  trees  and  eluding  us, 
they  flew  before  us  mile  after  mile  along  the 
stream,  always  vanishing  around  a  bend  of  the 
river,  to  be  startled  from  their  perch  as  we 
rounded  in  pursuit.  At  another  place  a  large 
turtle  regarded  us  with  an  air  of  profound 
astonishment,  while  two  butterflies  settled  them- 
selves peaceably  upon  his  Semitic  countenance. 
Such  are  the  sights  of  this  journey;  and  of  these 
there  is  prodigal  profusion.  Yet  gradually  a 
sense  of  monotony  settles  down,  and  by  sunset 
one  is  well  persuaded  never  to  journey  up  the 
Amazon.  A  thousand  miles  of  tropical  river 
must  be  the  highroad  to  desperation  or  insanity. 

As  the  stream  winds  through  the  flat-lying 
plain  between  the  screens  of  jungle-growth,  there 
are  glimpses  of  the  high  mountain-ranges  which 
frame  the  river-valley.  Their  forests  stretch  to 
the  very  crests  where  the  cloud-banks  begin,  with 
their  shining  white  and  tumbled  masses  towering 
up  into  the  blue  and  sunny  sky.  Straight  over- 
head it  is  clear,  and  the  sun  ghtters  more  and 
more  on  the  muddy  stream  as  the  afternoon 
passes.  At  last  the  larger  trees  begin  to  throw 
their  shadows  on  the  water,  till  finally  the  sun 


176  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

sinks  behind  them  and  the  cool  of  evening  comes 
suddenly  over  everything. 

At  the  day's  decline  we  rounded  a  bend  and 
found  a  dock  and  a  railroad  shed,  for  assurance 
that  nearby  there  was  a  village  In  which  to  pass 
the  night. 

Panzos  Is  in  the  department  of  Alta  Verapaz. 
This  is  a  fact  of  administrative  topography.  Yet 
it  Is  easily  recognizable  without  recourse  to  the 
map.  For  the  village  Is  clean  and  tidy  and  there 
is  a  general  air  of  self-respect  which  distinguishes 
the  natives  of  this  region.  The  women  are  often 
handsome  and  well-formed;  the  men  are  less  like 
cattle  and  more  like  free  beings.  It  would  need 
an  ethnologist  to  decide  whether  these  differ- 
ences are  due  to  the  German  and  Spanish  infusion 
or  whether  the  original  Indians  were  really  a  dif- 
ferent stock;  but  that  is  a  quarrel  about  causes, 
and,  In  any  case,  the  present  result  Is  plain. 

Verapaz  is  undeservedly  one  of  the  less  known 
regions  of  the  country.  Nowhere  else  are  the 
customs  of  the  Indians  so  varied,  their  temper  so 
kindly,  their  villages  so  profuse.  They  are 
among  the  few  natives  whose  artistic  industries 
are  of  real  interest.  Their  painted  and  carved 
bowls  have  the  New-World  character  of  the 
vanished  art  of  the  old  Central  American  races. 


The  Lowlands  177 

Without  being  alike,  they  are  almost  inexplicably 
reminiscent.  It  is  like  a  haunting  flavour  that 
the  tongue  never  fully  tastes,  this  common  quality 
which  makes  their  art  American. 

Panzos,  however,  is  still  in  the  damp  lowlands, 
mosquito-infested,  malaria-doomed.  There  Is 
clear  running  water  in  the  little  plaza,  with  its 
garrison-room  for  the  handful  of  native  soldiers 
and  its  church  where  the  sacristan's  piety  runs  to 
discordant  jangling  of  bells  and  explosion  of 
powder  in  old  iron  pipes  (to  the  detriment  of 
nerves  and  slumber).  But  the  daily  holiday  and 
the  ceaseless  fountain  are  only  a  mask  of  gayety 
and  health.  The  Indians,  brought  down  from 
the  uplands,  die  of  fever.  Of  the  population  of 
thirty  years  ago  only  one  remains  to-day.  To  be 
sure,  the  natives  have  children  aplenty;  but  in  the 
end  only  the  race  of  mosquitoes  really  prospers  in 
Panzos. 

This  is  the  end  of  river  navigation  and  from 
here  a  little  railway  runs  for  twenty-eight  miles 
up  to  the  region  of  firm  soil  and  dry  roads  where 
the  ox-carts  can  bring  down  the  coffee  from  the 
upland  plantations.  For  this  is  a  great  coffee 
district,  and  the  Alta  Verapaz  crop  is  held  to  be 
of  the  finest  in  the  world.  The  plants  grow  into 
veritable  trees  (though  their  yield  is  not  so 
abundant  as   that  of  the  bushes   of  the  Pacific 


178  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

slope).  Owing  to  the  great  rainfall,  the  planta- 
tions are  always  on  hlll-sldes,  so  that  the  water 
may  drain  from  the  sloping  soil.  With  all  this 
humidity,  the  growth  Is  prodigious.  But  weeds 
are  more  fertile  than  coffee,  and  constant  hoeing 
Is  essential.  This  loosens  the  soil,  which  the 
heavy  rains  wash  away.  Perhaps  because  of  this 
constant  loss  of  humus,  the  plantations  are  not 
long-lived  and  re-planting  Is  necessary  before 
twenty  years  are  up.  Coffee,  which  many  of  us 
Imagine  to  be  indigenous  and  immemorial,  or  at 
least  to  date  from  Spanish  times,  has  been  grow- 
ing in  the  land  for  only  fifty  years.  It  would  be 
Interesting  to  know  whether  it  will  last  many  cen- 
turies or  whether  the  soil  will  deteriorate  until 
Coban  coffee  loses  Its  golden  reputation.  Amid 
so  much  rainfall  and  washing-away  of  the  soil, 
neither  the  olive  nor  vine  could  flourish;  and  so 
it  was  that,  until  coffee  was  introduced,  there  was 
little  but  the  scattered  corn-patches  of  the  Indians 
where  now  the  great  plantations  cover  the  hill- 
sides. The  foreign  coffee-planters  have  grown 
rich,  while  the  native  is  just  where  he  was. 

The  little  railway,  leaving  Panzos,  runs  inland 
through  the  jungle,  the  journey  for  the  most  part 
being  a  dull  passage  through  disorderly  under- 
growth. There  are  occasional  great  trees,  some 
hung  with  the  baskets  of  the  yellow-tails,  whose 


The  Lowlands  179 

colony  is  reminiscent  of  a  Christmas  tree  loaded 
with  sugar-plums.  The  damp  heat  is  intense  and 
the  air  vicious  with  mosquito-swarms.  But  after 
twenty-five  miles  the  ground  becomes  firmer,  the 
rocky  hills  close  in,  and  the  train  climbs  through 
a  fine  canyon  with  overhanging  walls,  white  water- 
falls, and  marvellous  trees.  The  Polochic  is  now 
a  mere  stream  running  in  the  foam  of  rapids. 
Beyond  the  canyon  the  country  is  clearly  upland 
in  character:  the  jungle  has  vanished  as  if  by 
magic,  locked  out  by  the  walls  of  the  defile  through 
which  the  train  has  come.  Here  the  railway 
ends,  near  the  village  of  Pancajche.  Beyond  are 
the  wooded  hills  through  which  the  road  ascends 
to  the  coffee-lands  and  the  town  of  Coban  in  its 
upland  basin.  At  the  time  of  my  visit  the  ox- 
carts had  been  almost  a  month  on  a  road  which 
is  barely  seventy  miles  in  length,  but  unimaginable 
in  its  mud.  It  may  have  been  here  that  the  classic 
traveller  was  found  sunken  to  his  shoulders  in 
mire,  who,  on  being  extricated  with  difficulty, 
thankfully  advised  his  rescuers  that  if  they  were 
interested  in  a  fine  mule  they  would  find  one  eight 
feet  deeper. 

From  Coban  one  can  ride  northward  in  steep 
descent  to  the  huge  unpeopled  lowland  province 
of  Peten.  But  of  this  vast  lowland  department 
I  can  tell  you  nothing.     Impassable  in  the  rainy 


i8o  The  Land  Beyond  Mexico 

season,  sparsely  settled  with  Indian  hamlets  in 
the  midst  of  swamp  and  jungle,  it  is  full  of  the 
remnants  of  the  ancient  Mayas.  It  is  to  this 
region  that  present-day  archaeological  explora- 
tion is  directed;  and  perhaps  those  who  have  more 
knowledge  and  a  better  will  can  tell  you  something 
of  this  wild  and  unpleasant  land. 

From  Cohan  it  is  only  a  four-days'  ride  south- 
ward to  Guatemala  City,  at  first  through  beauti- 
ful mountain  country.  From  a  ridge  there  is  a 
view  into  a  great  upland  cup,  in  whose  centre  shine 
the  red  roofs  of  Salama.  Its  enclosing  hills  are 
the  celebrated  "terraced  mountains,"  which 
ascend  in  even  and  well-defined  earth-steps,  as 
though  ancient  races  had  put  them  under  culti- 
vation. Yet  the  phenomenon  is  undoubtedly 
natural,  and  no  hands  have  ever  been  at  work 
except  those  of  the  wind  and  the  rain.  There 
is  here  no  parallel  for  the  Incas'  laborious  and 
marvellous  husbandry. 

From  the  basin  of  Salama  the  rock-road  makes 
a  long  descent  to  the  crossing  of  the  Motagua; 
and  from  this  point  begin  familiar  scenes.  Here 
the  highlands  commence  once  more.  It  is  the  old 
story:  the  saddle  at  daybreak,  a  long  day's  trail, 
tortillas  and  black  beans,  Indians  with  their  packs, 
upland  views  and  wooded  gorges,  and  at  sunset 
the  far-stretched  plain  of  the  capital  city  with  the 


The  Lowlands  i8i 

great  volcanoes  black  against  the  flame-red  sky. 
After  more  than  a  thousand  miles  of  trail,  I 
end  where  I  began.  I  have  done  what  I  could 
to  recount  the  sights  and  follies  of  that  curious 
circle;  and  I  finish  without  regret.  But  for  you 
who'  have  journeyed  through  this  book  I  feel  a 
touch  of  something  that  may  be  envy.  For  (I 
warn  you  well!)  you,  and  not  I,  have  discovered 
the  truly  enjoyable  way  of  travelling  Guatemala. 
But  if  in  spite  of  that,  on  laying  down  this  book, 
you  think  not  over-kindly  of  one  who  has  lured 
you  so  long  and  so  far  through  such  an  uncivilised 
land,  let  your  last  thought  be  not  of  me,  but  of 
her  who  journeyed  diligently  and  without  com- 
plaint, Colorada,  my  grey  she-mule  of  the 
mountains. 


f 


} 


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